


I Go Where You Go

by targaryin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Obviously he is alive, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaegar is umm... yeah you’ll see, Slow Burn, That means Robert is dead lmao, also there will be canon inaccuracies bc i write for FUN, i’m not some ASOIAF history buff so pardon me, largely unbeta’d btw lol, maybe even eventual smut???, this is me just completely ignoring canon bc it’s shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-02-18 16:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 59,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18703384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/targaryin/pseuds/targaryin
Summary: King Rhaegar and Princess Daenerys go to the North. Daenerys having never laid foot outside of King’s Landing, is apprehensive, but little does she know what she’ll find. And how much it’ll mean to her.





	1. get that rush

**Author's Note:**

> ok so ummm this was pretty random like, VERY and it just came to like a few days ago and i had to get it out of me. almost 10k for a first chapter, what the fuck??? i’m sorry lmao i’m not the best writer either and there’s no beta so naturally there will be mistakes forgive me and be nice i beg

“I am going North to treat with Lord Stark in Winterfell and I want you to join me.”

 

Daenerys blinks twice in what she imagines to look foolish in manner, almost gaping in horror. _The North? Winterfell?_ Rhaegar has never gone North— not since before she was born. So why now? And why would he want her to accompany him to such a place?

 

It seems as if Rhaegar knows exactly her thoughts and goes on to reach over his large, grand desk to rest a hand upon hers.

 

“Dany, don’t look so horrified.” Rhaegar smiles, eyes twinkling in that loving, brotherly way he always looks at her. “Is the thought of traveling with your old brother so awful?”

 

“You’re not old,” she squeezes his hand. “I just wasn’t expecting this.”

 

Rhaegar snorts and leans back in his ornate oaken chair. “I am old—leagues older than you. Maybe that’s why you’re too good to make time for me now? Prancing around the keep with your dear ladies.”

 

Daenerys knows he’s only teasing, but she can’t help feeling guilty anyway. They haven’t been able to spend as much time together as they used to when she was younger. With Mother being sick and the passing of Viserys a year ago. She found comfort in being away from all of that by constantly making sure she was busy and hosting her ladies at every chance possible. Being around Mother made her sad and seeing Rhaegar sometimes made her even sadder. He always looked so disheartened these days. Ruling sure does take a toll on him and it can’t be any easier with the passing of his heir.

 

Daenerys vows to not make it any harder for him. What’s one trip?

 

“I’ll never be too good for you, Rhae.” If Mother had heard her address her king that way, she’d for sure scold her, but they were in private—with the exception of Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan standing post at the door to the left of them. “If it is your wish for me to accompany you to the North, then I will.”

 

The smiles she gets in return from her sweet brother is what she tells herself that’ll make it worth it. She may not know why Rhaegar is so keen on this journey, but she will endure it and will try to do so with an open mind.

 

Rhaegar lets her go with a kiss on the forehead and a reminder to start packing immediately. They will depart on the morrow, but before they do—she must take care of something first.

 

* * *

 

 

Knocking twice on the door before her, she immediately brushes away any imaginary dust on her gown. She’s nervous and perhaps she should be. How long had it been since she’s made the walk over to this part of the keep? Daenerys can’t be sure.

 

She’s met with the face of a woman who appears to be at least in her mid-twenties. Daenerys doesn’t recognize her dark hair and light blue eyes. _Must be a new one_.

 

The woman sccuries to the side to bid her entry and Daenerys almost gasps at the sight before her, feet taking her across the room and over to the bedside in a hurry.

 

Queen Mother, Rhaella Targaryen, and the best woman to ever walk the damn earth in her opinion is dying, she realizes. This has to be death—the sickly, pale skin, the skinny face, the collarbone jutting out from the collar of her nightgown, and the light dusting of hair on top of her head. Her mother used to have the most beautiful hair—so long and silver— _healthy._

 

And now, nothing.

 

When her mother opens her eyes and looks up at her, she just about loses it. Those once lively, amethyst eyes so like her own are now so... lifeless. So sunken in.

 

Noticing her daughter’s distress, Rhaella waves a hand in the direction of the maid in the room. “Leave us.”

 

Daenerys just about falls onto her knees, not registering the dull thud of them meeting the marble floor. All she can do is reach for her mother’s liver-spotted hands and cry even harder at how cold and clammy they feel.

 

“Hush now, child.” Rhaella squeezes her hand with as much force she can muster.

 

But Daenerys can’t hush. Can’t her mother understand what was happening? That she was dying?

 

“Mother I—” she tries to speak, but it’s like the words can only get trapped in her throat, not wanting to come out. Rhaella just keeps squeezing, letting her cry it all out. “Mother, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t know how s-serious—” Daenerys can’t even finish, blubbering so loudly.

 

It was never supposed to be like this. Her mother is the strongest person she knows. It’s part of the reason why Daenerys never took word of her mother being sick seriously in the first place. She should’ve known when Rhaella would have to send messages to beckon Daenerys to visit and not actually be the one coming to her. If something like this can happen to her, then what was the point of anything else? Life can be so cruel, she despairs. First, Viserys—that wound was still too fresh to be healed—and now, Mother? This couldn’t be. It _shouldn’t_ be.

 

“R-Rhaegar wants me to go N-North with him, but I won’t— _can’t_. Not now, not like this.” She leans forward to bring her head down onto the duvet.

 

“Oh, sweetling,” the hand that comes down to smooth against her hair makes her quiet down. “If not now, then when? You’ve never been out of King’s Landing, my child. You are a beautiful girl of seventeen, a little adventure won’t hurt. Winterfell will be a nice change—the fresh air.”

 

It makes her heart ache at how wistful her mother sounds. Knowing that it won’t be likely that she’ll ever leave this keep again—maybe not even this bed.

 

“Mother,” she starts, voice muffled by the duvet. She rises up to sit back, face tracked with tears. “It won’t matter, none of it. It won’t matter because you won’t be there.”

 

For a moment, Daenerys can see the shadow of the woman that once was in the way her mother smiles at her just then. Eyes alight with so much warmth.

 

Rhaella rests a hand on her cheek. “But, I’ll be here,” when Daenerys opens her mouth to speak, Rhaella speaks up. “Don’t worry, I won’t be dying while you’re gone. Grand Maester Pycelle says as such,” stroking a hand on Daenerys’ cheek, she continues. “I’ve got a kingdom to run one last time while you and your brother are off. Rhaegar seems to want this for some reason and he trusts in me to hold the kingdoms, so I will. Have no fear, I will also have our dependable Small Council.”

 

_One last time,_ she tries not to let that bother her. There’s so much she wants to say, but she doesn’t know how.

 

“Fine,” Daenerys sniffles, wiping at her face. “I’ll go and you will hold Westeros.”

 

Rhaella laughs gently, reaching to tap on her nose. “I haven’t seen you cry like that since you were five and Viserys claimed he threw your favorite wooden dragon into Blackwater Bay.”

 

Daenerys laughs at that as well. She’s always had a penchant for drama, she’ll admit. Viserys could be cruel when he wanted to, though. That doesn’t make it any less harder. The thought of him makes her sober up, though it makes her heart feel all the more heavier.

 

“I miss him.” She whispers quietly.

 

It’s silent for a good length of time until Rhaella just says, “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Cold, extremely cold._

 

Daenerys doesn’t think she’ll be getting used to how frigid it is out here any time soon. They’ve been travelling for quite some time. About two moons on the Kingsroad, but she’s actually delighted to hear Rhaegar tell her that they’ll be there before sundown. She’s happy for the simple fact that she won’t be in this damned carriage anymore. Occasionally, Rhaegar would let her seat her horse—her beloved Silver, but most times he’d tell her to travel in the carriage. _For safety_ , he says.

 

She doesn’t care too much about all that, something about all of this open land makes her want to ride away with Silver into nothingness. To feel the wind through her hair and across her cheeks. King’s Landing is nothing like this, at least there is something to the North.

 

Before they roll into Wintertown, Daenerys pleads with Rhaegar to let her ride atop Silver. How wonderous would it be to ride into Winterfell ahead of the party on horseback?

 

“Dany, no,” Rhaegar looks exasperated, they’ve been at this for minutes now. “It is not proper and you have no riding breeches on.”

 

Scoffing, she continues on. “This is the North, Rhae. Do they really care that much for propriety?”

 

Rhaegar sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in that way that tells her she’s being trouble. She decides to relent, if only a little. When she makes the suggestion for her to sit behind him side-saddle on his stallion, he agrees hurriedly. They both abandon the fanciful carriage for his Rhaegar’s black stead, Rose. With a little guilt, she realizes she’s been holding up their party of men—eager to get into warm shelter.

 

Usually, Daenerys would need no help to seat a horse, but she’s wearing this red gown that has so many layers, so Rhaegar helps her up with little to no trouble. _At least there’s this,_ she thinks as she watches Rhaegar climb and swing on top of Rose, ever so graceful. Though, she can’t help but think of how glorious it would’ve been to meet the Starks on top of her precious mount. Her mother always did say she was half-horse.

 

“You alright?” Rhaegar asks over his shoulder.

 

Daenerys wraps her arms around his middle and hums her assent. With that, they’re off.

 

It is odd riding through Wintertown. People come out of their homes and out of inns to watch them—a lot of them watch her. She can see some of them looking awestruck with wide eyes and open mouths and others...not so much. Daenerys is well aware of weary the North is of Southerners, but the way some of the people look at her and Rhaegar is downright nasty. She does her best to keep her chin up, she is the Princess after all.

 

In no time, they’re approaching the large gates of Winterfell and Daenerys doesn’t know why her heart has just decided now was the perfect to time beat so fast. She wouldn’t be surprised if Rhaegar could feel it about to jump out of her chest. Tightening her grasp around her brother, she just raises her head up even higher and when they ride into the main courtyard of Winterfell—her tummy decides to twist into knots.

 

Her eyes scan over the people standing at attention and ready to meet them with their courtesies. When they were riding up, Winterfell seemed to be a large castle—perhaps even larger than the Red Keep, and judging by the size of their house she isn’t wrong. There are so many people out here, but her eyes fall upon a man kneeling in the center of the line in front—everyone around him following suit. _This must be Lord Eddard Stark._

 

He has the infamous Stark look—long face, dark grey eyes, and dark hair. From the looks of the lines lining his face and his stony visage, he seems to be a serious man to Daenerys.

 

Daenerys quickly scans the rest as best as she can, before Rhaegar drops down onto the muddy ground and lends her a hand. As gracefully as she can, Daenerys drops down from Rose and gives her a friendly pat, while Rhaegar walks up to Lord Stark.

 

“Your Grace,” Lord Stark’s rough accents rings out into the courtyard. “Winterfell is yours.”

 

“You may stand.” Rhaegar commands.

 

At once, everyone rises and Lord Stark makes the moves to offer a hand to Rhaegar. They shake hands, but Daenerys feels a cutting tension in the air. It’s clear to her that Lord Stark is apprehensive, but he welcomes her brother nonetheless—who, himself, seems to be just as uneasy. _Curious_ , she thinks.

 

The war was long ago, but maybe some things just never die.

 

“May I present to you, my sister,” Rhaegar looks back at her with a disarming smile, hand out for her to take. Back straight and chin high, she walks forward to grasp his hand. “Princess Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

 

She’s surprised to see Lord Stark actually smile at her and she does her best to return it.

 

“Your Grace,” he greets, still smiling pleasantly at her. Remembering her formalities, Daenerys puts her hand out and Lord Stark takes it to place a kiss upon it. “It is an honor to meet you.”

 

“You, as well, My Lord.” She politely replies.

 

As Rhaegar makes his way down the line of Starks to greet and trade courtesies with, she follows. Daenerys notes that the two eldest Stark children, Robb and Sansa, are spitting images of their mother, Lady Catelyn Stark. Both of them with their Tully red locks and blue eyes. In fact—all of their children have the Tully look, except their youngest daughter, Arya, who she can tell is a spitfire. The younger Stark girl has the Northern look.

 

It’s when she’s greeting Arya, that she notices a boy standing just behind Robb looking over at her—staring, really. It kind of shocks her just how much he looks like Lord Stark—though, if she dare to think it, more pretty? His curls are almost as black as night, lips quite pouty, and cheeks a bit rosy. The boy’s eyes are dark and grey—stormy. Judging from the look of him, he looks to be around her age.

 

_Who is he?_ she wonders.

 

She’s snapped out of her reverie when Rhaegar places his hands on her shoulders and moves her down the line. If he noticed what she was looking at or the burning flush on her cheeks, he doesn’t say a word. Only just looking to see what— _who_ had her attention. It’s strange the way Rhaegar looks upon the boy.

 

It’s _really_ strange, for he just stares—shoulders stiff and jaw tense.

 

There’s no time to think on it long because the little boy in front of her, Bran, asks in a burst of breath if her hair was truly real. Daenerys can only giggle when he gets scolded by Lady Stark who shoots her an apologetic glance.

 

“Yes,” she indulges, thinking that he’s just the cutest little thing. “All real, would like to see for yourself?” When she leans forward, beckoning him to touch the long, silver-spun locks he perks up immediately and makes the move to touch it, but his hand is met by a slap from Arya.

 

“You can’t just touch the princess’s hair, stupid!”

 

Bran shouts back, frowning. “Yes, I can! She just told me I could!”

 

Before they can continue bickering at each other, Lord Stark looks at them exasperatedly, but there’s a warmth in his eyes. “I’m sure when you get to know the princess, there will be plenty of time to touch her hair.”

 

Daenerys smothers another giggle behind her hand at the sight of Bran’s put-out face and Arya’s smug one. Already, they are quite entertaining and nothing like she was expecting. Maybe, it won’t be so bad here.

 

“Lord Eddard, if I may ask for a word?” Rhaegar looks tense and even perhaps—unsettled?

 

Lord Stark just looks at him for a moment, face unreadable before he tells everyone to go back to what they were doing before. Just like that, the castle returns to what she assumes is the normal bustle and routine of the place. She watches as Rhaegar parts with Lord Stark, the both of them walking away to some part of the castle. She wonders what’s that all about.

 

A soft voice comes out with a “Your Grace” and Daenerys turns to see Sansa Stark standing there, fiddling with her fingers—looking quite nervous.

 

“Yes, Lady Sansa?”

 

Sansa blinks twice, a pretty flush on her cheeks. “Would you be interested in a tour of the castle, Your Grace?”

 

That doesn’t sound too bad, for she was way out of her depth here. Perhaps, she might even earn a friend in Sansa Stark.

 

Daenerys holds out an arm, smiling at her. “I would be most interested, Lady Sansa.”

 

The Stark girl beams brightly at her, a clear contrast to the monotone surroundings and saddles up to her side, taking her arm into her own. As they began to walk, Daenerys can’t help but to look around—searching for what? More like _whom._ She’s only just arrived here and already she’s looking for some boy, like a fool.

 

_Ah,_ she thinks, _there!_

 

The boy is some feet away listening to Robb Stark and some other sandy-haired boy chat his head off about something—gaze far away. Is it really a crime to think he’s pretty to look at? Daenerys isn’t quite listening to what Sansa is saying beside her, and just choosing to study him. He seems to be of a similar height to Robb—average and from the way he’s staring off into the distance with a pout in place that she finds quite amusing—broody. Would it be too forward to ask Sansa of his name? Would that give her away?

 

When the boy finally looks away from whatever he was staring at and over to her, she almost gasps. It isn’t right to have eyes like that, in her opinion. They’re unrelenting, making that burning flush creep up her neck and onto her cheeks. For whatever reason, the boy seems intent to stare right back as she was and Daenerys is surprised by his gall. He’s not a Stark, so he must be some serving boy—maybe working at the stables—and that should be enough for him to feel some sort of humility and stop him from staring at the princess so openly, shouldn’t it?

 

It’s only when the sandy-haired boy standing beside him makes some sort of jape, pressing a hand on his shoulder from laughing so hard, that he finally tears his eyes away. He shoves the other boy’s hand away and rolls his eyes at whatever he and Robb are saying to him now. They look to be close friends, she observes.

 

“Oh, that’s Theon Greyjoy,” Sansa offers when she finally notices Daenerys looking over at the three boys. The sandy-haired boy is who she’s talking about. “My father’s ward—he can be quite crude sometimes, but he’s Theon, nonetheless.”

 

Daenerys opens her mouth to ask about the other boy, but Sansa tugs on her arm and away from the courtyard, excitedly chattering about the castle to her. She won’t dare to chance a glance back, but she can feel something burning into her back. _He’s watching_.

 

It makes her pick up her feet and hurry away into the castle with Sansa all the more—running away from the curious boy and those eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

It is just when she’s finally able to settle down that a knock comes to her door.

 

Opening it, she’s met with the sight of Ser Barristan standing there with Robb Stark—chin high and hands behind his back, in a respectful manner. She doesn’t know why she feels something akin to disappointment bloom in her chest, but decides to tuck that away for later.

 

“Your Grace,” Robb beams at her, eyes so bright. He is quite handsome, Daenerys finds. “If you do not mind, I have come to tell you that there is to be a feast tonight in the Great Hall.”

 

Sansa has already told her, but she doesn’t mention that. Something tells her that Robb’s appearance isn’t really about the feast and is about something else. From the way his clear blue eyes look over her from head to toe, it’s inquisitive interest. She supposes that’s fair.

 

It’s not everyday a Targaryen princess comes to the North.

 

“Thank you, Lord Robb,” she smiles at him, the one Rhaella says that could wake a dead man’s heart. Shifting from one foot to another, Daenerys makes the move to step back and raise an arm, signaling the boy to enter. “Would you like to come in, My Lord?”

 

She’s being pleasant, hoping he doesn’t take her up on her offer, but he does, sweeping into the large guest chambers. Over Robb’s shoulder Ser Barristan shoots her a critical glance, but says nothing. Daenerys ignores it.

 

Closing the door after him, she swallows slightly and turns to back to Robb, hands folded in front of her. _Is this improper? A boy her age in her chambers just as the sun is about to go down?_ She can’t help but feel like she’s doing something she isn’t supposed to.

 

Robb only just smiles at her, seemingly unaffected. If anything, Daenerys finds his easy disposition disarming. She decides to drop her shoulders a bit to relax.

 

“Your Grace, if you don’t mind me saying, I happened to notice something earlier.”

 

_Alright, so maybe no relaxing_.

 

Trying not to come off as some guarded, stony princess, she asks as breezily as she can, “Oh yes? What is that?”

 

There’s something there in Robb’s eyes that makes her want to turn around and bolt away from this very room right now. A slight bemusement? But also something knowing? She doesn’t like it, she decides.

 

“Yes, Princess,” Daenerys stays still when Robb walks forward, but not crowding her. It doesn’t really help, she feels like the walls are closing in on her. “You’re curious.”

 

“Of what?”

 

Robb just smiles, choosing to turn away and walk the perimeter of the room. “Of my brother.”

 

Daenerys is confused. She wasn’t entirely curious of Bran, even though she thought he was quite adorable. And Rickon is only a boy of four. There isn’t much for her to be curious about either of them.

 

Robb must see her befuddlement, chuckling. “Not my baby brothers, Your Grace,” when he comes back to stop directly in front of her again, she swallows. _What other brothers, then?_ There were only three Stark boys as far as she knew. “My _half-brother_ Jon.” Robb supplies.

 

Ah, that’s right. How had she forgotten? Lord Eddard Stark not only had three trueborn sons, but also a natural-born son. The Bastard of Winterfell, she remembered people calling him.

 

So, that must the boy from earlier. It certainly explained how he had the Stark look, but it also explained how he also looked—differently. _Pretty_ , she recalled herself thinking. His mother must have been quite a beauty.

 

Feeling a bit cornered now, she grits her teeth. Is this how boys of the North are? Rude and assuming? But he wasn’t really assuming—now was he? That thought makes her feel even more irritated. Was she really that obvious?

 

Feigning indifference, Daenerys plays the part of haughty princess—hands folded and head tipped up. “What of it, My Lord?”

 

Sensing her aggravation, Robb raises his hands in surrender. “Nothing really. Just getting the measure of you.”

 

Was this boy really so daft? How is that supposed to be soothing? _The measure of me_ ... _I am a dragon._

 

“I think it is improper for you to be here, Lord Robb,” she wants him out before she reveals just how fiery she can be. “Thank you for your time and your visit, but I must be getting ready for tonight.”

 

Robb looks at her for a moment—most likely wanting to press the issue—before wisely deciding to recede, walking past her to the door. Daenerys doesn’t even turn to watch him go, choosing to stare at the stone wall before her. Her ears perk up slightly at hearing his footsteps fall short of the door and his sigh.

 

“I am sorry if I offended you, Your Grace,” he does sound quite sorry, she thinks. Voice heavy and remorseful. “If you choose to sate your curiosity, then you’ll understand why I came here like this. Jon is—” Robb huffs, stopping himself from going any further. “Just—sorry.”

 

What is he? She wants to know. What of this _Jon_?

 

“Very well,” she says, choosing to let it go. It is only her first day here after all, she’d rather not be on bad terms with any of the Starks. Even if this one in particular was assuming and forward. “I will see you at the feast.”

 

Robb takes that as a dismissal, swinging the door open and when it finally shuts close, Daenerys lets out one solid breath.

 

Only the first day and she’s been _measured_ by Robb Stark. All for the sake of this Jon. Sure, she was staring at him back in the courtyard, but so what? She didn’t know the boy, he was nothing to her. Just quite comely, that’s all.

 

If there is anything to be said for that strange encounter, it’s that Robb sure seems to love his brother. Thinking on it now there was something quite protective about it all. Was there something wrong with this Jon fellow? Robb has said if she chose to feed her curiosities, then she’d understand. Surely, there is something to the boy then.

 

But she is not curious. No, not all.

 

He is just some boy—bastard of Eddard Stark.

 

She was _not_ curious.

 

Trudging over to the bed and dropping down onto the furs, she raises a hand to hold her head. From the slight ebbing coming in at the corners, she can tell she’ll have a headache soon.

 

“Your Grace,” It’s Ser Barristan, but she doesn’t even bother to look his way. “Is everything alright?”

 

Not wanting to worry her old trusted knight, she waves it off. “Quite fine. Just need a moment to rest. We had a long journey.”

 

Daenerys doesn’t know how she just knows Ser Barristan isn’t convinced, but she does. Perhaps it’s because Ser Barristan was always worrying after her. Her personal shadow since the time she could walk on her own. He worried when she was a young girl, falling over for running too fast in the halls of the Red Keep. He worried when she was a girl of one and ten, terrified of her first encounter with her moonblood. And he’s been worried most of all this past year—with Viserys and now Mother.

 

Ser Barristan will worry after her for a lifetime it seems.

 

“If you need anything I’m just outside, Your Grace.” He offers.

 

Looking up and mustering the best smile she can, “Oh, I know. Thank you.”

 

With a final bow, his white head of hair ducks out of the door, shutting it with a soft click. She drops back onto the bed and sighs deeply. Perhaps some rest would do her some good. Her handmaidens will wake her when it’s time to prepare for tonight. It’ll be in an hour or so, she imagines.

 

Turning onto her side, Daenerys looks out of the window and out into the burning orange sky, marveling at how fast the sun goes down here. It isn’t long before she drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

“The red or the black, Your Grace?”

 

Both gowns are quite boring, the usual Targaryen red and black— _fire and blood_ and such. Merla, one of her handmaidens, a young girl from the Riverlands, is currently holding both gowns in question in hands. They are alright, but it’s so ordinary for her. All of her life she’s been surrounded by red and black—dressed in it. Time for a change.

 

Daenerys stands from where she was sitting at the vanity and makes her way past Merla and to the bed where a trunk is resting at the foot of it. If she remembers correctly she packed one particular gown that would be perfect.

 

Merla clears her throat wanting to pull Daenerys away from the trunk and over to the dresses in hands.

 

“One moment, Merla,” she continues to rummage through the trunk, going through silk after silk, linen after linen until...finally. “Ha! Here it is.” Daenerys pulls away from the mess to lift up a beautiful lilac gown. It’s a pretty thing and it was gifted to her by Rhaella for her name day last year. She tries not to think of how much a shame it is that she won’t be seeing her in it.

 

Merla’s green eyes widen at the sight of it. “Oh, that’s lovely! It’ll bring out your eyes!” Dropping the other two dresses onto the bed, Merla hastily approaches to bring a hand to the fabric. “We must get you ready at once, Your Grace.”

 

Just then, the door opens to reveal Daenerys’ other handmaiden and close friend, Missandei.

 

Missandei came to her about three years ago all the way from Naath—the butterfly island of Essos. They quickly became fast friends despite Missandei being under her to serve, but Missandei didn’t seem to mind that part at all. It used to bother Daenerys at first, not wanting her dear friend to feel inferior and akin to a slave. When Daenerys told Missandei as such mere months after Missandei’s arrival, the curly haired girl laughed it off—telling her that as much as she loved her home, it was no place for her to stay and that she was grateful to be by her side. It was that moment that solidified their friendship.

 

She doesn’t what she’d do without Missandei.

 

When Daenerys waves the dress in Missandei’s direction, the girl grins, looking pleased with her selection. “Excellent choice, I always wondered when you were going to wear that,” Missandei walks over to take the gown away and then coming back to smooth a hand over Daenerys’ hair. “Now let's get you bathed, Your Grace. So I can get started on this,” hand tugging playfully at one of Daenerys’ silver braids—messy now after her nap. “Sleep well?”

 

“Yes, quite well,” Merla moves behind her to help unfasten her dress. Daenerys moves a hand to her cheek, taking in the puffiness of it. “My face must look awfully bloated now.”

 

Missandei snorts at that. “Don’t worry about that, Your Grace. You’ll be as pretty as you always are for tonight.”

 

They make quick work of her after that—putting her in a steaming bath just how she likes it and then rushing to dry her off. Missandei tugging her day old braids loose and starting over again. If she were back home, she’d probably be halfway asleep by now—the hands working on her soothing and lulling. But she’s not home and this isn’t just any other ordinary day. It puts her on edge just a bit, eyes wide and unblinking for long moments of time—not paying any mind to anything Merla or Missandei is saying.

 

She’s never been to a feast outside of the keep and nevertheless so many leagues away from home. To a place where it’s either love or hate for her and her family. All she can do is hope they’ll receive her and Rhaegar well enough.

 

Not before long she’s being tugged away from the copper tub and what once was scorching hot water, being dried, and then pulled into her gown. Fortunately, this place had a looking glass over in the corner atop of a humble vanity. Daenerys finds herself staring into it and sure enough, as Missandei promised, _pretty._

 

Rhaegar arrives just as she’s turning away from her reflection. Of course, he looks dapper as ever—a true Targaryen king in his fine red and black. It makes her think that perhaps she should’ve been matching with him to look more united in the face of these Northmen, but Rhaegar waves it off when Daenerys says as such.

 

“Just because you are not wearing your house colors doesn’t mean anything. The blood of the dragon runs through you. Anyone can see that.”

 

And perhaps that was enough.

 

It was all a bit of a blur after that. She and Rhaegar along with their party of some fifty men and women make their way to the Great Hall where the feast would be held. As she expected, Daenerys was handed off to be escorted in on the arm of Robb Stark—who had a hard time looking at her. The two of them filed in after Rhaegar who was led in by Lord and Lady Stark. For a place as grim and dark as Winterfell, the Great Hall to her pleasant surprise was not.

 

The large space was well-lit by many candles and the stone walls were covered for the most part by an assortment of tapestries. She couldn’t keep the smile from rising on her cheeks when she caught sight of a large Targaryen banner—menacing to many others, but to her a comfort in this strange place. It was not lost on her that the Starks made an effort to make them comfortable.

 

Walking through the ranks of many men and women—some were Lords and Ladies—made her heart race a mile a minute. If Robb noticed how tight she was gripping onto his left arm, he didn’t give it away at all. She caught a few displeased frowns, but all in all the people looked upon with respect and not the hostility she was imagined they would.  As she was walked over to her place at the high table between Rhaegar and Lady Stark, she realized it was going to be alright.

 

Lord Eddard made a welcoming speech of sorts for them and then shortly after he was done, telling everyone to enjoy themselves, music started to play and food served. The food up north was a lot different from what she was used to. Back home, there was a plethora of food, much variety. Here she was met with a lot of different meats—game and the like. It wasn’t bad, in fact it was prepared deliciously, but she was happy to see that they had crab imported from White Harbor. Seafood was always a favorite.

 

Throughout the feast, she made smalltalk with Lady Stark and made it a point to thank her for the hospitality and effort into making the Great Hall feel welcome.

 

“Oh, it was nothing, Your Grace,” Lady Stark assured, resting a hand on her forearm. “We are honored to have you.”

 

Daenerys truly felt like she was telling the truth, at least on her part. “Are you _all_ honored to have us?” Gaze falling onto some of the subjects who had initially looked uncomfortable with having them here—there was a Lord Umber who looked at her quite nasty when she walked in. When she settles on Rhaegar to her right, leaning in to talk hushedly with an uncomfortable looking Lord Stark, Lady Stark speaks up.

 

“Yes, we are,” her arm is slightly tugged to bring her attention back to Lady Stark and she does, turning away from her brother and back to the Tully woman. It doesn’t stop her from wondering what the two of them have to always speak of in secrecy. “If anyone has made you feel unwelcome, Your Grace—”

 

Raising a hand, she cuts off Lady Stark, “No, no...just an an observation.”

 

Lady Stark opens her mouth to most likely prod further, but Sansa steps up to the high table, head lowered demurely. “Your Grace, Mother,” she greets, looking up at the both of them. “I have to ask if the princess would like to join me and Jeyne tomorrow for our sewing lesson,” when Daenerys raises a brow in surprise, Sansa stutters, “Or n-not. Perhaps the princess already had another plan.”

 

Daenerys leans forward to offer a hand out to the girl and smiles warmly at her when she takes it. “I would love to join you, Lady Sansa. Thank you for asking.” Sewing may not be something she enjoyed thoroughly, but it wouldn’t hurt to indulge Sansa.

 

“Oh, how splendid,” Lady Stark smiles between the both of them. The resemblance between the mother and daughter startling. “Septa Mordane does a good job teaching our girls how to be fine ladies.”

 

Just as Lady Stark finishes that sentence, Arya darts past Sansa and in front of Rhaegar with sparkling eyes, instantly drawing his attention away from Lord Stark. Daenerys can see Robb behind, out of breath from chasing after her.

 

“Is it true that you defeated Robert Baratheon by sticking your sword through his eye and out the back of his skull!?”

 

Lady Stark gasps loudly and scolds even louder, “Arya!”

 

Daenerys looks over to see Lord Eddard still as stone and face hardened. It was no secret that Lord Stark and Robert Baratheon were good friends. After all, they did rebel together all those years ago. But it was curious as to how Rhaegar looked upon Arya Stark just then. Most monarchs would be offended at how brash she was, not caring she was his subject and that she should be respectful. Her brother though, just smiled. Not at all bothered, in fact, he looked thoroughly amused.

 

“Well, Lady Arya,” Rhaegar started, leaning in and whispering like he was letting her in on a secret. “Let’s just say between us that was an exaggeration,” she noticed how Arya’s shoulders visibly dropped, disappointed that the story she had heard was not true.

 

Rhaegar must have taken note of it, too, making a point to lean in even further and whisper dramatically. “But Robert did not get back up when I was done with him.” He laughed as Arya whole demeanor changed back into her initial buzzing excitement.

 

Next to him, Lord Stark turned his eyes down and she was sure his mind was now far from here—probably back in the war. It was surprising to Daenerys that Rhaegar felt comfortable enough to indulge this little lady with a tale from the war. All of her life, Rhaegar was fairly closed off about it all. Not even telling her much of anything about it.

 

“You know, Lady Arya,” Rhaegar leaned back to smile down on her, eyes swimming with light—light she hadn’t seen in a long time. “You remind me a lot of an old friend.”

 

Arya opened her mouth to speak, probably to ask who, but that much Daenerys had a clue of. Lord Stark cut off his daughter with a gruff order for her to go back to her table, hand clenched tightly around the edge of their table and jaw even tighter.

 

“Father—” Arya raised her voice to protest, but was interrupted by Robb coming up and taking a hold of her shoulders, making the move to escort her away. Lord Eddard’s stern eyes watching them go along.

 

Daenerys watches in amusement as the girl struggled against her brother’s attempts to bring her back to their table. It seems as if her earlier observation of the Stark girl was correct—a spitfire indeed.

 

“Robb!” Lady Stark yelled over the clamoring of several people getting up to dance to the music—a new tune more jovial than the last. When Robb finally gets his disgruntled sister seated once again, he comes back in front of them, not meeting Daenerys’ eyes at all.

 

“Mother?”

 

Lady Stark glances over at Daenerys for a quick moment before turning back to Robb with a sly grin. _Oh, gods_.

 

“Would you mind taking the princess for a dance? It would be a shame if she sat here all night with my company.”

 

She can’t stop the dread from coming over her even if she tried. It was clear Robb didn’t even want to be within ten feet of her and now they have to dance?

 

“Your company is quite lovely, Lady Stark,” Daenerys isn’t lying, she’d be fine sitting next to her all night if she had to. Mingling with the people of the North is not something she’s eager to do. “Besides,” picking up her nearly empty goblet of wine and waving it. “I’ve had more than enough wine. I’d be awful on my feet.”

 

Which she isn’t lying about either—three cups in, cheeks flushed, and cold trickles of sweat just at her nape.

 

But clearly, Lady Stark doesn’t care about that at all, waving her off. “Your Grace, you couldn’t possibly be any worse than all of those drunkards out there.”

 

Scanning the crowd of dancing bodies—more like flailing, Daenerys knows she can’t argue with that. She doesn’t even bother to look to Rhaegar for help. He’s been talking with Lord Eddard all night and their conversation has only become more tense. Her brother’s not even paying her any mind.

 

She finishes off her wine as politely as she can without seeming like she’s guzzling it and gives Lady Stark a dazzling smile. “When you put it like that, I suppose it should be fine.”

 

Robb—still not even looking at her—holds out a hand and bows slightly with a “Your Grace” and if Daenerys could she’d be rolling her eyes back until they got stuck probably. But of course, like a dutiful princess she takes his hand and lets him lead her out onto the dance floor.

 

To her great pleasure, no one really bats an eyelash at her, just going about their dancing and laughter. If she’s going to embarrass herself she’s glad it’ll be with hardly anyone watching. Robb stops them in the center of the floor and turns, finally looking at her. She tries not to bristle as he places a hand on her waist and lifts another for her to take. Taking it and then placing her free hand on his shoulder, she looks at him head on—just ready to get it over with.

 

“Follow my lead.” That’s all he says, not even giving Daenerys a chance to speak before scooping her close and whisking her away.

 

Dancing is something she’s not unused to. She’s learned how to, of course she has, but this kind of dancing was a stark contrast to what she had been taught. For one, she felt as if she was entirely too close to Robb, one of his arms wrapped snugly around her waist. She wanted to yell and snarl at him like the three-headed dragon that painted her family’s banners. It didn’t help that he seemed quite fine with being this familiar with her—corners of his mouth slightly upturned. Secondly, it seemed as if the tempo increased as they spun and spun around and in between the all bodies and sporadic limbs flying around. It made her feel out of control and frenzied.

 

But luckily, Robb was well versed in this kind of dancing and led her along, not missing a step or beat. They went on like that for a time. Maybe four or five songs, she isn’t sure all too sure—too wrapped up in trying not to fumble and embarrass herself in front of all of these people. Not like they would probably notice, anyway. _Where there’s endless wine, there’s endless carelessness._

 

Rhaella told her that once during Viserys’ 13th nameday. Even so far away, Daenerys hears her voice so startlingly clear. She can see little Viserys—drunk, but so happy—dancing around with an indulgent Rhaegar. Their laughter ringing in her ears like bells.

 

“Princess?”

 

Blinking herself back into reality, she finds Robb looking down at her with his eyebrows furrowed. “Hm? Yes?”

 

“Do you need a moment, Princess? We’ve been dancing for quite some time.” He sounds kind when he says it and perhaps Daenerys might have the wrong impression of him. It’s also brought to her attention that they’ve been just swaying around to a much slower song. The loud and fast music replaced with something more gentle and soothing. _When did it change?_

 

“Oh, I’m fine,” she rushes out hurriedly, not wanting to cause any concern. “It's quite the dancing you do up here.”

 

Robb smiles something genuine at that. “Yeah? Much different from the South I take it?”

 

“Very, we don’t dance as fast,” her eyes catch onto a figure looming back in the shadows, but she can’t quite make it out just yet—Robb twirling her out away from him. “It’s much slower like this.” When he brings her back into what had become a comfortable embrace over their shared time, Daenerys finds the figure again and almost stumbles at what she sees.

 

It’s him. Jon Snow.

 

She’s surprised to see him staring at her once again so openly. At first, she thought his eyes were stormy, like the greyest skies right before it’s time for a downpour. But when she sees him step forward just a bit more—casting his face in the warm light of the hall—they’re like the coldest steel. Hard and pointed.

 

Looking back up at Robb for a moment and to Jon, she finds that there’s really no resemblance at all. Brothers? She wouldn’t even know it.

 

And she definitely didn’t want Robb to know she’s been looking at his brother again, remembering his warning. But what could be so bad about him, she wonders as she sneaks another look. Well, he surely doesn’t seem shy to meet her gaze, but that’s not so bad. If anything, it makes Daenerys feel…

 

Well, she doesn’t know yet, but it makes her feel something.

 

Clearing her throat and shaking off the feel of _him_ , she steps away from Robb. “I think it’s best I take you up on your offer and take a breath.”

 

“Right, of course,” he generously offers his arm and she lets him lead her off of the dance floor and back to her seat of honor. Everyone is looking at her now—Rhaegar, Lord and Lady Stark—and it makes her chest tighten. Robb is still lingering and reluctantly she looks back at him. “It was my honor to dance with you tonight, Your Grace. Welcome to Winterfell.” With a bow and a smile, he’s off back to his table where his friend, Theon, is smirking at him like some kind of fool.

 

A weight is instantly off of her shoulders and now she wants nothing more than to go back to her chambers and get ready for bed. Nothing would make her happier at the moment.

 

“Wow,” Rhaegar reached out to bring a hand to her forearm. “The two of you were quite a sight out there.”

 

She was glad he was whispering, so she could lean in and murmur, “I was doing my duty, that’s all.”

 

“Still, you were a beauty out there,” pride coloring his voice. “The delight of the Seven Kingdoms, sister.”

 

If she weren’t in the present company of the Starks and all of their people she’d be rolling her eyes until they got stuck. All of her life, she’d been called that. Just like her ancestor, Rhaenyra. _The Realm’s Delight reborn!_ Daenerys loathed it, but never said anything. It made her feel like she wasn’t her own, like she was _theirs_.

 

“Rhaegar, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to my chambers to rest.” The sun had to be way past down by now. Perfectly acceptable for bedtime.

 

Her brother sighed, clearly not wanting to let her go just yet. But as she expected he nodded his assent and waved over Ser Barristan who’s been standing sentry in some dark corner.

 

Lady Stark seemed to understand what was happening and frowned. “Your Grace, are you leaving us?”

 

“Yes, my Lady,” she could see Lord Stark now looking at her as well. “I’m afraid I have tired myself out and must retire to my chambers.”

 

When she stood Lord Stark followed as well. “Princess, we were honored to have you,” he says, smiling at her. “And thank you, for indulging my son for a dance. I know Northern dancing can be quite…” he trails off, not knowing the right word to use.

 

“Wild?” She supplies, hoping he understands it’s in good humor. She’d never want to cause offense to the Warden of the North.

 

Fortunately, Lord Stark chuckles at that and gives her a hand to help her down the dais and over to where Ser Barristan is standing. “Exactly, Your Grace. Have a good rest.”

 

“Thank you, Lord Stark. You as well,” glancing around at the fun still in motion with no signs of slowing down anytime soon. “Whenever you have the chance to escape.”

 

Lord Stark laughs at that and something tells her that one was quite genuine. It makes him look younger, she notes. He waits for her and Ser Barristan to make their way out of the Great Hall. If Daenerys looked around to see if a certain boy was still around and was disappointed to not find him, she’d never tell it.

 

Making her way through the castle, she tries to remember the way Rhaegar and her had been led from. Perhaps it would’ve been smart to have someone help find her way back properly, but the time alone walking the halls was nice. When would she get to have a chance like this again after she‘d eventually go back home?

 

A nightly stroll through Winterfell, she never would’ve thought.

 

There hasn’t been any walking up stairs, so she knows she’s still on ground-level. Eventually, though she comes across two big doors and for some reason she just knows it leads outside.

 

Daenerys has always loved going for walks, especially through the gardens of the Red Keep. Night air sounds quite encircling, especially since she was still feeling the wine she had. So, naturally she pushes open the doors and heads out into the chilly night air, all the while ignoring Ser Barristan’s steady glare digging into her back. _Clearly, he knows the way_.

 

What she walks out into is what she recognizes as the main courtyard where they’d been greeted all those hours ago. Looking up, all of the stars and the moon welcome her. It’s a beautiful sight that immediately envelops in a warm balm of peace and calm. Daenerys thinks she could watch the night sky forever if she was able to.

 

Of course, though, she’s not able to because there’s this annoying, repetitive smacking sound coming from _somewhere_ and pulling her away from her view.

 

_Better go see what it is_.

 

The smacking is coming somewhere in front of her, to the left, she thinks. It gets louder and louder as she approaches it and is that— _grunting_? Maybe she should turn back, it’d be really awful if she saw something she wasn’t supposed to. But her mother never called her curious for nothing, so she continues to move towards it, heart thundering in her chest.

 

It’s not all at what she expects. Well, she doesn’t know what she _was_ expecting—just not this.

 

Right in front of her, Jon Snow, is punishing a sad excuse of what once was proper target practice with a blunted, wooden sword. There’s no form and he seems quite upset, not even noticing that there’s someone watching him. For a moment, her chest swells with empathy—wanting to know what had upset him so badly. This boy was a stranger, though and she shouldn’t be feeling so—sad?— watching him. And watching him without him knowing and with Ser Barristan at her back was wrong.

 

“I think it’s dead!” She calls out. Freezing, Jon Snow drops the sword. “Unless, you don’t care you’re beating an already dead man to death, then carry on.”

 

He slowly turns around and then when he meets her eyes he curses. “Seven bloody hells,” realizing he just used improper language in front of the princess of the Seven Kingdoms he immediately drops to his knees and bows his head, but not before letting another string of colorful words. “Your Grace, I am sorry!”

 

The sight is very amusing to her. _Poor boy_ , she thinks, trying to hold back her laughter in order not to embarrass him any further. “You may stand.”

 

Almost fumbling back down to the ground, he shoots right back up, keeping his eyes to the ground and hands behind his back. Ever so humble. Where was the boy that was staring out at her so brazenly?

 

“You also may look at me.” She can’t help giggling just a bit when he starts at that and then snaps his head up to her attention. His face was so red. Gods, she could paint a dozen new Targaryen banners with it. “Was I interrupting something important?”

 

Jon sheepishly rubs the back of neck. “Ah, no, Your Grace.”

 

“Well, like I said, it seemed like he—” nodding over to the sack of hay he was hacking at. “—is pretty dead. You could kill a man, but you see, you weren’t really using any form.”

 

Walking over to the sack of hay, she assesses it. “If you want to wield a sword, you should do it properly.” Looking back over at him, she catches him staring at her with his jaw slightly ajar and eyes wide, most likely wondering why in all of the seven hells she was talking to him and about sword wielding no less. Daenerys didn’t really have an answer to that either. She never really knows how to stop once she gets going, so presses on and turns to her guard. “Isn’t that right, Ser Barristan?”

 

Ser Barristan had been looking at her like she had two heads the whole time, but of course being her loyal friend he obliged her anyway. “That’s right, Your Grace.”

 

At the mention of Ser Barristan’s name, gone was the pretty flush of Jon’s cheeks and now replacing was a sheet of white. It was as if he’d just now realized she wasn’t alone and that she was with Ser Barristan.

 

“You’re _the_ Ser Barristan?” Jon asks, voice incredibly shaky now.

 

To her amusement, Ser Barristan taps on his legendary white armor of the Kingsguard and nods.

 

From the way Jon’s eyes light up, she can tell this is some sort of hero of his. It makes her proud and she can think of no one more deserving of such utter awe than her old friend.

 

“I am sorry to bombard you, Ser, but you’re a legend.” Jon walks up to him, still not quite believing his eyes. “I grew up on stories of you and it was because of men like yourself and Ser Arthur and so many others that I wanted to fight. I am not that good, but thank you for what you’ve done.”

 

Daenerys can’t stop the smile from spreading across her face at Ser Barristan’s look of surprise. All these years and he’s still so modest.

 

Ser Barristan clears his throat and scratches at his beard. “Oh, well, thank you. And you’re young from what I can see, you’ll have plenty of time to get better, lad.”

 

Something about that makes Jon’s face fall for a moment, so brief that she’s sure Ser Barristan didn’t catch it. “Not that much, I’m afraid,” shaking his head, he continues to beam at Ser Barristan. “Thank you all the same, Ser.”

 

“You don’t have to thank me,” her old friends reaches out a hand to Jon. “What’s your name, lad?”

 

Jon takes it and shakes it. “Jon Snow, Ser.”

 

Daenerys wants to say she knows—she knows he’s Lord Stark’s son, but if he didn’t mention it then it’d be no use to do so. Especially right here in front of his childhood hero. Lord Stark is known for being the most honorable man in all of Westeros and he’d only broken one oath. To be a product of that broken oath mustn’t be easy and mustn’t be something one would like to be reminded of.

 

It was dawning on her how this would look, surely everyone here in Winterfell knew who Jon was and if they saw her with him even if she was with Ser Barristan, it wouldn’t be good. Bastards had a reputation for being sinful, greedy, and all of the other horrible things one can think of. Daenerys wasn’t a fool, though, and knew that they were just people like everyone else. In fact, the population of bastards in Westeros far outweighed the population of high born people. She found the whole concept of it quite foolish, especially when her closest friend was from a place where bastards didn’t even _exist_

 

One day she’d be queen and perhaps during her reign she’d find a way to crush that ideal into the dirt. Tonight though, she was only _Princess_ Daenerys Stormborn and so she would have to act the part.

 

“Excuse me, Jon Snow, but I must be getting to bed now.”

 

She tries not to let his startled look of disappointment faze her—it does. What fazes her even more is the way his face hardens shortly after and his eyes turn into stone. “Of course, Your Grace. Rest well.”

 

Inwardly wincing at how icy his tone sounded, she gives him her polite smile. “You as well.”

 

Before she can even walk away, he turns from her and it feels colder than the night air biting at her cheeks. _Did I do something wrong?_ Not wanting to seem affected, she sweeps away in a mess of skirts and back into the castle far, far away from the sounds of wood hitting hay—over and over again.

 


	2. the hour of the wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve done it again!!!! 9k!!!! here we go baby!!! (unbeta’d as always) its 5 am and my eyes are burning but i had to get this chapter out of me

Daenerys was tired.

 

It was late morning, but she couldn’t stop the yawns coming from out of her mouth. Sleep didn’t come to her easy last night and she’d like to think it was because of her new surroundings, but she knew it wasn’t. That’d be a lie. Guilt and confusion had been riddling her all night.

 

To be quite honest, it was annoying that she was feeling this way over someone she didn’t know at all. But being empathetic had always been her gift and her curse—wanting to share and understand other’s thoughts and feelings and perhaps even carry them as her own if they were weighed down by them. It seemed like he was weighed down by whatever had been on his mind before she had come his way. That poor sack of hay had been a sign of that.

 

_But what, though?_ Daenerys was sure it was going to bother for her some time.

 

“You know if you’d stop sitting over there and frowning, maybe you could get ready for today.”

 

Missandei walked in without a care, as Daenerys had made sure she had grown accustomed to do so. As far as she was concerned, what was hers was Missandei’s. It didn’t bother her that she welcomed herself into room. If anything it was comforting to know she had someone that she could truly be careless and one hundred percent herself around.

 

So, Daenerys snorted in response. “Oh, yeah? Where is Merla then,” she challenged, already knowing the answer. That poor girl was probably still dead to the world. “I don’t see her and you’re not pestering her about being up.”

 

Taking Missandei’s silence and eye roll as a victory, she happily hums as she gets up from the bed and strolls over to sit in front of the vanity. As she expected, evidence of her restless night are in the form of the bags under her amethyst-blue eyes. Huffing, she grabs her brush and begins to get to work, starting at her ends—wanting to at least look somewhat presentable today.

 

She can hear Missandei going through her things to the right of her, sorting them and humming along. It’s peacefully quiet for awhile. Just the steady motion of her brush going through her hair and the sounds of Missandei’s sweet and clear tune. It’s just what she needs to soothe her addled mind.

 

Not before long, Missandei eventually makes her way over to her to take the reins—actually doing something to resemble some sort of style. Daenerys can’t help but to let her eyes droop and close only to snap them open again and again until Missandei stops humming.

 

“No sleep?” She inquires, meeting her princess’ low eyes in the looking glass.

 

Daenerys smiles weakly. “Not much I’m afraid,” she murmurs. “Unfamiliar settings and all.”

 

Her friend just hums at that, but Daenerys can tell that Missandei most likely knows she’s not telling the truth. One thing about Missandei is that a lie never seems to get past her.

 

A knock prevents Missandei from going too much into it, choosing instead to go open the door. Daenerys smiles at the sight of Merla who looks completely out of it—a deep sleeper, this one. _At least she slept without a care._

 

“Your Grace, Missandei,” the girl greets with a deep yawn following right after making the other two girls smile at each other in amusement. “Forgive me,” she says as she moves past Missandei to make way into the room. “I’m just so tired. I am sorry for the late start, Your Grace.”

 

Waving it off, Daenerys just says, “There is nothing to be sorry for. We know waking you is like waking the dead. No one barely bothers anymore.”

 

Merla flushes at that, ducking her head to look over the clothes Missandei had sorted. The young Riverlands girl—she was a girl of fourteen—had come to her a little less than a year ago. A moon or so after Viserys…

 

It was an attempt from Rhaegar to make her feel better—a new companion. At first, she wasn’t too happy with the idea. Why would she need someone else if she had Missandei? But Merla had come to show her that she was reliable and willing to do just about anything. It was nice to have her.

 

“Will Lady Sansa come to fetch you, Your Grace?” Merla asks, picking up a blue gown and surveying it.

 

Daenerys frowns at that, she wasn’t quite sure and to be honest, she had forgotten that Sansa had sought her out last night and asked her to join her for the sewing lesson. “I really don’t know,” tapping her finger on the solid surface of the vanity, she turns to Missandei. “How about we just get ready to break our fast and go from there, hm?”

 

“Good idea,” Missandei agrees, coming back over to finish whatever she was doing to Daenerys’ hair. “Perhaps she’ll find you and then you’ll go off together. If not, you’ll surely find something else to do. I’m sure your hosts would love to entertain you, Your Grace. But first,” she turns the princess’ head back to face the looking glass. “I must tame the beast.”

 

A surprised laugh tumbles from Daenerys’ lips when Missandei teasingly gives a tug at her hair and she can’t stop herself from sticking her tongue out in retaliation. Her friend just snickers at that and resumes her work. The minutes pass with Merla coming back and forth to hold out choices of dress, looking for approval and Missandei braiding away.

 

Just as the last braid is finished and tucked into in the right place, the blue dress Merla was looking at earlier is being shown to her and she figures it’s good enough. “That’ll be the one,” she tells the girl. They both help into it, even though it’s a fairly simple long-sleeved one and she could manage it alone—well, except the laces in the back which hold the whole thing together. Choosing a warm cloak she finally heads off to Rhaegar’s chambers which is a ways down from her own—Ser Barristan following her along.

 

Her knock goes unanswered and she finds herself pushing her way into the room. With a swelling disappointment she met with the ghostly silence of the abandoned room. _Where had he gone?_ Breaking her first fast in this place with her brother was something she had been hoping for.

 

“Perhaps he is in the Great Hall, Your Grace.” Ser Barristan suggests, picking up on the visible slump of her shoulders.

 

Forcing a smile, Daenerys nods and makes her way past her friend to leave. Hearing him close the door behind them both, she turns to look back at him. “Well,” eyes scanning the space of the hallway. “do you have any idea where it is? I’m still unfamiliar.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” he makes the move to lead. “Follow me.”

 

Of course, Ser Barristan knows where it is. He must’ve went scouting the place out a bit. Trailing her trusty knight, they make their way through many halls and she makes sure to keep note of the direction they’re going—to not be completely clueless of this castle. She can tell they are getting near the hall because they come into contact with more people. Servants of the keep and the like—they even see little Bran who is running about through the halls. The small boy makes sure to yell out a greeting, but never stops—smiling and laughing all the while. Daenerys finds him incredibly cute and can’t help but to also laugh as he goes buzzing by them.

 

Finally, they make a turn into a more spacious corridor and it looks more familiar to her than anything. The Great Hall is just through the tall wooden double doors and Ser Barristan stops so Daenerys can pass him and push through the heavy oak.

 

All of the tables from the feast have been cleared out and it looks like the wild shindig that had just been taking place more than a few hours ago never happened at all. Her feet slide over the stone floors and over to the dais where the she had been sat at last night. While she’s approaching she can see the back of what she recognizes to be Sansa and another girl. Fortunately, she won’t have to go about the castle looking for her or waiting for her back in her chambers like she planned to do if she couldn’t find her.

 

Sansa and the girl appear to talking about something that she can’t quite hear, even as she approaches them. They both bolt upright when she rounds the table and it almost makes her jump.

 

“Your Grace, good morning!” Sansa squeaks in surprise, body rigid. The girl beside her has her head lowered, whether in embarrassment or shyness, Daenerys can’t tell. “Oh, um, this is Jeyne Poole, Your Grace.” Sansa nudges her friend in the ribs and startles the girl into snapping her head upwards to meet Daenerys’ steady, but warm gaze.

 

“H-Hello, Your Grace.” Jeyne dips into a bow of some kind—completely unpracticed and not very graceful, but genuine. She’s quite mousy in her features, but still very conventionally pretty with her brown eyes and chestnut hair. Her and Sansa are completely different.

 

Daenerys smiles at her and nods. “Hello, Jeyne.”

 

She gestures for them both to take their seats across from her and she follows suit. As soon as she does, it’s like the food magically appears in front of her—a serving girl quietly placing it down in front of her. Where she came from, Daenerys doesn’t know. The food is a happy sight, though.

 

“So,” she starts, picking up her cutlery to cut into the blood sausage. “What were you two talking about?”

 

Sansa bites her lip and looks over to Jeyne before answering, “You, actually.”

 

Daenerys raises her brows at that, not expecting that answer. Sansa flushes in response and Jeyne is choosing to focus on her half-eaten food instead of looking her way. It’s all very amusing to her.

 

“N-Nothing bad, of course,” Sansa smiles sheepishly, fiddling with her fingers and glancing down at them. “We were just wondering what you like to do for fun, Your Grace.”

 

Daenerys takes a bite, humming and thinking over it for a moment. “I like to do many things, I guess. Reading, swimming, riding my horse, singing—although I’m not half as good as Rhaegar,” she says with a bit of humor, making the girls giggle. “Going for walks is something I quite enjoy and dancing, I suppose.”

 

“Ah, yes! You and Robb were dancing for a while at the feast,” Sansa mentions, grinning. “You looked to be a great dancer, Your Grace.”

 

Jeyne makes a noise in agreement at that. “The two of you looked magnificent, Your Grace,” she sighs dreamily, resting her head on her hand. “Robb lead you along handsomely.”

 

Sansa rolls her eyes at that. “Jeyne, stop mooning over my brother, please.”

 

Daenerys laughs at the displeased look Sansa is giving her friend, like this is something she’s used to. Leaning over the table towards Jeyne, she whispers, “Do you like him?”

 

Jeyne hasn’t lost the lovestruck gleam in her eyes. “There is no girl up here that _doesn’t_ like Robb.” Ignoring Sansa’s strangled noise of protest, Jeyne goes on. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”

 

Saying no would be a lie. Robb had been one of the most handsome boys she had laid eyes on. With his fiery hair and icy blue eyes, Daenerys was sure he’d be off to be married soon if he wasn’t betrothed to someone already. And all of that was fine and well, but…

 

A flash of stormy orbs and curls as black as night cross her mind.

 

_Nonsense_.

 

Choosing to just smile at Jeyne and pat her hand, she leans back and goes back to her food—trying to shake it off.

 

Jeyne must’ve been about to continue listing off her admirations because Sansa snaps at her with a fed-up “ _enough”_ and that gets the girl quiet. The three of them sit in relative silence as they finish breaking their fasts. It gives her time to think about Rhaegar and where he could possibly be. Nine times out of ten he’s probably off with Lord Eddard once again. Which is not too strange seeing as though Lord Eddard is her brother’s Warden, but it nags her a bit that he couldn’t even seek her out before going off to his duties.

 

_That’s selfish_ , she chides internally. _Rhaegar is King and that comes first. Always._

 

It seems as if Sansa was waiting for Daenerys to finish because as soon as she does, the Stark girl asks her if she’d like to join them for sewing as she had proposed last night. Sewing isn’t something she’s the best at, but it’ll give her something to do with her hands and her mind. When she accepts, Sansa leads her out arm in arm while Jeyne walks in front of them, leading them to some room.

 

Inside, there’s a septa sorting out various materials—thread and fabrics. Raising her head at the sound of the door opening, the woman faces them. Unlike everyone who she has come across, the septa doesn’t bat an eyelash at her—still and rigid.

 

“Your Grace, this is Septa Mordane.”

 

The woman bows all formal and proper. “Welcome, Princess.” Her voice is clipped and eyes unrelenting. Daenerys can tell this woman is stern and takes her duties very seriously. The tense set of her jaw and the deep, unforgiving lines in her face tells her that. She doesn’t like her already.

 

With her hands clasped, she nods once in her direction. “Thank you.”

 

Jeyne leads her to a stool to have a seat and then goes over to the table where all of the sewing materials are set. Sansa sits down beside her and gives her a nervous smile, glancing between Daenerys and the septa—who haven’t broken eye contact yet.

 

It feels like the septa is trying to assess her and see what she makes of her. Daenerys isn’t cowed by her at all. _What is a mere septa to a dragon,_ she thinks confidently. She wonders where this woman finds the gall to look at her in such a way.

 

Septa Mordane gives a short “hmph” sound and one last look-over before turning her gaze onto Sansa, who had been fidgeting beside her. “Where is Arya, Lady Sansa?”

 

Jeyne walks over to them, generously handing both of them the necessary tools for their activity and then takes her seat on the other side of her friend. Sansa starts to mess with the thread and needle.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she stiffly replies. “Causing trouble?”

 

The septa sighs and then takes her own seat at the front of the room. “She should be here. All of the Seven gods know that girl needs some serious manners—”

 

Sansa opens her mouth to say something, but gets cut off by the door slamming open. Daenerys whips her head around to see the girl in question standing there with a hard, furrowed brow and Lady Catelyn right behind her looking exhausted.

 

“Ah, Lady Arya. Someone’s finally on time.” Septa Mordane stares the girl down as her mother escorts over her to the open stool at Daenerys’ right.

 

Arya plops down with a huff, arms crossed and looking very unimpressed. It makes Daenerys want to cackle. _Someone doesn’t enjoy sewing._

 

Lady Catelyn makes her way to over the table and comes back with sewing materials. Handing them out to Arya, she leans down to get eye-level with her. “Arya, you do as Septa Mordane says, yes?” Arya doesn’t answer back, arms still crossed and eyes lowered stubbornly. Lady Catelyn sighs and asks once again through tightened lips, “Yes?”

 

Rolling her eyes, Arya sighs and drops her arms. Daenerys can feel the girl’s defeat and feels bad for her. “Yes.”

 

“Good,” Lady Catelyn hands her daughter what she needs once more and almost sags in relief when Arya takes it. “Be good, love.” She pats Arya on the head much to the girl’s obvious chagrin and then flits over to drop a kiss onto Sansa’s brow.

 

Before Lady Stark leaves—already making her way for the door—she turns back to give Daenerys a tired smile. “It is lovely that you girls are spending time like this,” her voice is warm, eyes alight. “They will see to it that you’ll enjoy your time, Your Grace.”

 

Daenerys sends her off with a gracious smile and a nod. The door booms as it slams shut and the four girls mirror each other by turning to face Septa Mordane. Sansa and Jeyne with a ready attentiveness, Arya with dread, and Daenerys with indifference.

 

“Well, ladies,” Septa Mordane addresses them in an orderly fashion, hands clapping together once. “Let’s get started.”

 

* * *

 

 

An hour or so has passed and she can tell that if Arya has to sit still and sew with them any longer, the girl will surely lose her mind. The tapping of her foot for the past few minutes is a clear sign of her being antsy and just itching to get out of this small room. Sansa and Jeyne have been enjoying the whole activity immensely—preening every time Septa Mordane would give them a compliment on their work which was _often._

 

Both of them true ladies through and through, but not Arya Stark.

 

No, Daenerys can tell this girl has no desire to be a lady of any kind. The riding breeches and long-sleeved woolen tunic that were splattered with mud along with the tangled mess of her dark hair had been a tell of that.

 

She’s been keeping her eye on the girl and the way she would continuously look up and out into the window longingly. Clearly, Arya would prefer to be outside right now—the sounds of wood hitting wood accompanied with the hooting yelling of men just outside weren’t helping her anxiety and despair for the girl had been pouting for the past hour.

 

What was also not helping lift the girl’s spirits had been Septa Mordane’s constant prattling about Arya’s stitching not being good enough. The woman had repeatedly been putting her down and not even trying to help her. Just giving up with a short sigh and a disappointed shake of the head.

 

Sewing wasn’t something she was the best at either and it showed—her progress not any better than Arya’s. Septa Mordane knew better than to call her out on it, though or to make any snide remark as she had been doing with Arya. Those comments didn’t sit well with her and she made sure to always follow up with a compliment or some form of encouragement. The crooked smile Arya had given her every time in gratitude was worth shrugging off a thousand of the septa’s disapproving looks.

 

What had surprised Daenerys more than anything was that the girl’s older sister hadn’t even spoken up once or even looked Arya’s way. Choosing to ignore her sister for Jeyne and Daenerys. _Weren’t siblings supposed to protect each other?_ Viserys had—always. Even in his own unorthodox ways he had been her greatest protector once, even more so than Ser Barristan. _And weren’t siblings supposed to love each other?_ Rhaegar has shown her a lifetime of affection and warmth. Always doting on her like she was his own, his daughter. The Starks looked to be a close knit family so far, so Sansa giving her sister the cold shoulder was something unexpected and quite frankly, frustrating.

 

She felt immensely for Arya over the last hour of their shared time and so, if Arya wanted out—then she’d get out.

 

Without a second thought, Daenerys intentionally lets her fingers slip and pricks herself with the needle. Gasping sharply she drops the cross-stitching she’d been working on and bolts upright, cradling her precious finger in a mockery of pain. They come to her all at once, scrambling and fretting over the blood rushing from her index finger.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Arya looking at her with dark brows bunched together in the middle in confusion—she had seen it all. Daenerys gives her a subtle grin and a sly wink, eyes trained on her while nodding back towards the door.

 

The girl lights up immediately, giving Daenerys a cheeky grin and slithers out of the door with the other three souls in the room none-the-wiser.

 

“Oh, Princess,” her finger gets snatched in Sansa’s general direction. The girl presses some cloth onto it to stop the flow of blood. “Are you alright?”

 

Daenerys winces to make a show of it. “It hurts, but I’ll be fine. We should continue.”

 

Septa Mordane fixes her with a look. “Absolutely not, Your Grace. Sansa will escort you outside to get some fresh air,” placing a hand on both of their shoulders, she leads them to the door which was suspiciously half way open. “Where has Arya gone?” The septa asks, looking out into the hallway left and right.

 

“She must’ve escaped.” Sansa gripes with a roll of her eyes.

 

The septa tightens her lips and looks at Daenerys. “You’ll need to get bandaged for that, Princess. Sansa will take you to Maester Luwin before you two go outside.” When the two girls linger, she shoos them away with a, “Go on!”

 

Jeyne makes the move to follow, but gets stopped by Septa Mordane. “You will help me clean.” Jeyne’s shoulders slump in disappointment, but she just solemnly stays behind as they leave.

 

Sansa rushes her down the corridor and around the corner to the left, all the while tightly holding the cloth to her finger, blue eyes blown wide. It’s just a light nip to her fingertip, nothing serious at all, but she’s the princess and _any_ injury of hers—big or small—will always be treated as some fatal thing. She can hear Ser Barristan trailing right behind them—metal plates of his armor clinking here and there—probably just as worried.

 

A large door gets shouldered open by Sansa and Daenerys is met the sight of rows and rows of different vials and bottles resting upon shelves. It’s nothing like the Grand Maester’s rookery back at the Red Keep, but it’s pretty standard. It had far more in it than she was expecting.

 

A small man with grey, thinning hair is hunched over a desk looking over some scroll. “Maester Luwin!” Sansa cries, leading Daenerys over to him. “The princess has hurt herself when we were sewing.”

 

Maester Luwin looks over at them both and then lingers on her for a moment, before giving a warm smile. “Your Grace,” he sets the scroll and makes his way over to her, back still hunched. Walking looks painful for him, she notes with pity. “Let us see, hm?”

 

Taking her hand from Sansa, she gently rests it in his waiting palms. They’re calloused and quite cold, the hands of a working man. She fakes a wince for Sansa, who’s watching them like a hawk—bottom lip nervously between her teeth.

 

Just as she knew, the blood had stopped and it takes nothing for Maester Luwin to dab a small bit of some salve onto her fingertip and then wrap it with a linen bandage. He sends them off, but not before telling Daenerys it’d been a pleasure to serve her and telling Sansa to look after the princess, which makes the girl become visibly paler than she’d been the whole time watching over her.

 

They walk side by side and Daenerys makes sure to take the girl’s hand and give it a squeeze. Sansa has lightened up a considerable amount by the time they make it outside. The chilly breeze dancing over her cheeks makes her close her eyes for a moment, taking in the fresh air around them.

 

When she opens them she can see Rhaegar standing on the balustrade that overlooks the main courtyard, of course he’s accompanied by Lord Stark. Both of them are looking down at two boys sparring—conversing with each other all the while. As she and Sansa get nearer she sees it’s Robb and Theon Greyjoy.

 

Sansa stops them at the foot of the stairs that lead up to the balustrade and turns to her with a sorry look. “Your Grace, I hope you don’t mind but I should go back and find Jeyne and help her.”

 

“Oh no,” Daenerys squeezes her hand once more. “Go on, help her. I should probably go see my brother, anyway.” Sansa gives her a grateful smile and then sweeps away back in the direction of which they came from.

 

Daenerys waits until she sees the red of hair Sansa’s hair disappear behind the door, before turning to climb the stairs. She’s about halfway up when she looks over and catches the eye of Theon Greyjoy. To her dismay, the boy gives her a smirk which she can only describe as lecherous and a mocking bow. Deciding to just turn away and act like she _definitely_ did not see him obnoxiously wink at her, she continues and finally reaches the top.

 

As she’s walking the length of the balustrade, something tells her to look back down and when she does Jon Snow is down there on the sidelines giving Theon a nasty look. His face is thunderous—eyes that raging storm she had seen when she first looked upon him. The scowl on his face doesn’t make him any less pleasant to look at—even more so, she thinks.

 

Not even realizing she was still walking and how close she’d been in the general direction of another body, she bumps into someone and almost jumps out of her skin. Rhaegar is there looking down at her with endless amusement, chuckling he quips, “Forget how to walk and pay attention at the same time?”

 

She’d been paying attention alright, just not on walking.

 

Lord Stark is watching her with the same mirth as her brother is. _Gods_ , _I must’ve looked like a fool._

 

Blushing, she just sidles up to Rhaegar—nodding over to Lord Stark and then looking out into the courtyard just in time to see Robb hit Theon on the back of his head. He snipes something at his friend making the Greyjoy just roll his eyes and ready himself for their next round. But Jon just cuts in and shoos Robb off to the side.

 

“Oooohh, Snow! You’re up for a challenge?” Theon teases. “Been wondering when you’d stop standing over there and glowering the whole time.”

 

Jon just chooses to say nothing, gripping the wooden sword in his hand tightly. Getting the sense that Jon wasn’t up for any jests or games, Theon clears his throat and twirls his own sword in his hand, getting ready.

 

Her hands move to grab onto the railing in front of her. Last night she’d seen Jon swiping left and right at a practice dummy and while his wrath at the time had tore it shreds, she’d had no clue how he’d fare against another human. The feeling of her heart in her throat had made her realize she was nervous— _for him?_

 

They start with Theon going offensive first with his swipes at Jon. None of them ever touch him, though, he’s too fast. Ducking and weaving so masterfully, it looks like a dance. It goes on like that for a while, Jon just always a step ahead of the Greyjoy. She marvels at how the speed of his moves makes his long, black curls bounce this way and that.

 

Jon finally reaches out to hit Theon, but he catches it—the wood meeting with a _clacking_ sound. It picks up then, but Theon still isn’t able to keep up with Jon. The both of them aren’t far off in terms of build, Jon being a bit bulkier in the shoulder, but he’s able to use some sort of brute force. He doesn’t ease up as Theon begins to stagger backwards. There’s some sort of look in Theon’s eyes as Jon’s mowing him down and Daenerys realizes with increasing pleasure that it’s fright—the Ironborn is scared. Rightfully so, Jon is a force to be reckoned with.

 

_Singular,_ she thinks. _He’s absolutely singular._

 

Theon falls back onto the muddy ground with a “ _yield!_ ” as Jon is about to strike again, sword raised above his head. His eyes are dark and unyielding, it’s not like anything she’s ever seen. But alas, he drops his arms and reluctantly lends the Greyjoy a hand up.

 

Whatever Jon says to Theon is low enough that it doesn’t meet her ears, but she can see the way the Greyjoy tenses—shoulders rigid and jaw tight. Mouthy as he is, it surprises her when Theon just says nothing and skulks off over to the side where Robb had been standing witness to it all—mirth painting his features.

 

She watches as Robb teases Theon much to his chagrin. The Greyjoy now shouting face red, “Well then you spar with him!”

 

Jon looks at Robb for a moment, the both of them sharing a look before something is decided and then Robb goes out to join Jon, wooden sword twirling in his hand. Unlike Theon, Robb isn’t too keen on teasing his brother, he just readies his stance same as Jon and waits.

 

Just as the first time, Jon hangs back and waits for his opponent to make the first move. Robb takes his time before striking first, not immediately rushing in and she instantly notes that Robb is better than Theon with the sword—pretty good, actually. So that makes it an even match, the boys going back and forth knowing exactly how to deal with the other.

 

She looks out of the corner of her eye to see both Rhaegar and Lord Stark intently watching just as she had been, in fact everyone was. Servants stopping their daily tasks, Arya hiding behind a cart placed a few feet away, and she sees Ser Arthur watching with a keen eye as well. Ser Barristan, too.

 

The brothers are putting on quite the show.

 

Daenerys is sure that they could go on for some time as she turns back to resume watching them trade blows and dance around the courtyard back and forth, like a pendulum. _They could probably go on forever,_ she muses. But just as that thought passes she sees where Robb slips up in their rhythm, his right foot stuttering, tripping up on something. Jon takes the opening and kicks out, sweeping his brother’s leg from underneath him. Robb falls back hard and groans as Jon points the end of the would-be blade to his throat.

 

“Do you yield?” Jon asks, knowing Robb has no choice, but does it anyway.

 

Robb huffs and puffs, breathing coming through his nose hard and heavy. “I yield.”

 

With a smile, Jon makes the move to help Robb up, clapping him on the back with a chuckle. Robb just rolls his eyes, but claps Jon on the back as well, a good sport through and through.

 

“That was something, Lord Eddard,” Rhaegar says from beside her. “Your boys are trained well.” His voice is tight when he says it and Daenerys would look to see what the problem was if she wasn’t so preoccupied watching Jon Snow.

 

“Ah, thank you, Your Grace,” Lord Stark replies courteously, his voice a bit more gruff than usual. Daenerys still doesn’t look and she did she would probably notice how the two men beside her are staring each other down—the air between constricting and awkward. “Our Master-at-Arms, Ser Rodrik does a fine job training them.”

 

Rhaegar gives a small hum, voice strangely wistful as he says, “That he does.”

 

Their conversation wasn’t completely falling on deaf ears, Daenerys was somewhat listening, but it completely fades away, falling away to nothing but white noise as Jon looks up from where he was standing with Robb and Theon, round orbs seeking.

 

She could curse herself for the way her heart stutters when they lock eyes, but that would mean she would have to pay attention to it in the first place. Amethyst meeting grey. Something in his face changes slightly—the dark furrowed brows relaxing, the corners of his mouth slowly changing from being downturned, eyes widening and then settling with something a little like warmth, a little like defiance. It makes her chest tighten, palms now clammy with anxiety, knuckles white from clutching onto the bannister like a lifeline.

 

_How do I look right now? How does he see me?_

 

For that very long moment, everything slows down around her. It feels like it’s just her and this strange, strange boy. This Jon Snow, who she knows nothing about and during that very long moment she decides she would like to try. Forget Robb and his blasted warning, it wouldn’t be enough. She’d like to try. Try to know this Jon Snow.

 

It startles her how much she’s already fixated on this person, so much so she ends up being the one that looks away. Breaking that very strange, intense moment.

 

And just like that, everything comes rushing back in, the world around her catching up. Her breaths are quickened and hurried, cheeks red hot, the cool air doing nothing to quell the fire that burns them. She realizes that she needs to get out from here—away. An idea comes to her and she just hopes Rhaegar would say yes.

 

Doing her best to catch her breath, she clears her throat before turning to Rhaegar, resting a hand on his shoulder as he is turned away from her and halting his conversation with Lord Stark. “Rhaegar?”

 

Swiveling around so quick that the few loose silver tendrils framing his face fly around, he appraises her with a worried glance, deep indigo eyes tracing over her features. She tries not to feel self-conscious. “Do you think I could go out for a ride? On Silver?” Rhaegar blinks a few times, mulling it over, but she can see the uneasiness at her request. Technically, being a princess she didn’t _have_ to ask, but Rhaegar’s approval was something she often sought after. “Please?”

 

He sighs, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Daenerys…” he trails off, unsure. “Where would you go?”

 

She’s not too sure about the geography surrounding Winterfell, but she was sure that there was _somewhere_ she and Silver could roam free. This was the vast land of the North, after all. She just needed to be away.

 

Lord Stark clearly can see she’s not sure how to answer that, so he steps in. “The wolfswood should be safe enough seeing as though it’s still daytime, but of course you should still go with someone,” casting a look over at Ser Barristan, he nods. “Your Ser Barristan should be good, but you’ll need someone to lead you there. If it is alright, Your Grace, I could enlist someone who knows the land well to lead the princess safely.”

 

She couldn’t help but feel immense gratitude towards him.

 

Rhaegar is still hesitant that much is clear from the way he frowns slightly, marring his delicate, kingly features. He looks between Lord Stark and Daenerys, eyes narrowed.

 

So, she pleads a little, not much caring of Lord Stark seeing. Inclining towards her brother, she rests a gentle hand on his forearm, eyes round. “Please, Your Grace,” her usage of his royal title makes him shift on his feet. “I would like to see the land with Silver and I wouldn’t be alone. Ser Barristan will be with me and Lord Stark will have someone escort us so we will not be blinded.”

 

He gives in, but not before sighing and shaking his head. “Alright, fine,” turning to Lord Stark, he commands him to bring them to the best suitable person he could at the moment. With a terse nod, Lord Stark tells them to follow. They all follow along as Lord Stark leads down the stairs and across the courtyard right over to…

 

“Father?” Robb calls out, meeting them as he approaches. Jon is behind him with Theon, looking startled as he scans all of them. Her, The King, Ser Barristan, and Ser Arthur.

 

_We must be quite a sight_ , she thinks with little humor.

 

Lord Stark beckons Jon over as well and to her horror she realizes what this is about. “Robb, Jon,” she watches as Jon looks skittish, eyes constantly flitting between his father and the king. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

 

Before Lord Stark can finish, Jon does same as he did last night when she happened upon him, dropping to a knee and bowing his head—for Rhaegar this time.

 

“Your Grace, it is an honor.”

 

Robb looks like he wants to laugh—Theon already snickering from behind. She can’t see Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur’s faces, but she’s sure they are amused as well. Lord Stark though, looks uncomfortable, swallowing thickly. Rhaegar just smiles down at him, it’s open and welcoming. Not as bright as when he smiled at Arya at the feast, for she can see a shadow of something passing through his eyes, but still a smile nonetheless.

 

Her brother reaches out a hand. “It is no bother, lad.” When Jon hesitates staring at the king’s offered hand in shock, Rhaegar just beckons him with a nod, smile still in tact, but it’s gentler now. “No bother,” he repeats, voice melodic and sweet.

 

Jon blinks openly for another moment before cautiously taking the king’s hand. Rhaegar pulls him up and gives him a pat on the shoulder in good nature. “I saw you two earlier,” Rhaegar says, hand still clasped in Jon’s, looking between him and Robb. “It was a good match. You boys do well, very well.”

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Robb’s chest puffs up as he says it. _Boys and their pride when it comes to swordplay_ , she muses while looking at him and his wide smile. “Perhaps we shall be seeing you for a sparring lesson?”

 

Rhaegar outright laughs at that and it floods her chest with warmth. Seeing her usually melancholic brother in his moments of happiness always makes her feel content.

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that one...” looking back over at Jon, staring for a moment like he’s unable to look anywhere else, his mouth twitches before saying, “Maybe, I will.”

 

Daenerys notices that Rhaegar has yet to let go of Jon’s hand.

 

Rhaegar’s eyes trail over his face. “Jon Snow, is it?”

 

Now Jon looks as uncomfortable as his father, throwing him a look before clearing his throat and nodding. “Yes, Your Grace.”

 

“It’s been a pleasure to meet you, lad.” Rhaegar sounds so sincere when he says it—his eyes so earnest and warm—that it makes her feel like she’s witnessing something she shouldn’t be. Something private.

 

Jon falters, mouth falling open and then closing with a snap. He blinks rapidly, free hand at his side closing and opening. “You as well, Your Grace.”

 

_How odd,_ she thinks feeling unsettled as she studies her brother and the way his eyes were slightly unfocused, in a trance, daze, she didn’t know.

 

Lord Stark clears his throat rather loudly, breaking whatever that was. Rhaegar snatches his hand back, surprised and Jon silently retreats, taking a step behind Robb. Daenerys notices how he tucks the hand Rhaegar had been holding behind his back, eyes downcast.

 

Something in her heart pangs.

 

Deciding to get on with things, Lord Stark clasps his hands together rather loudly before telling Robb and Jon how she had wanted to go riding and that Ser Barristan and herself would need an escort. Daenerys takes a quick glance over at Jon, but he doesn’t even look her way, gaze hard and focused on Lord Stark.

 

“Both of you know the wolfswood pretty well. Would you mind escorting the princess out?”

 

Robb grimaces, reaching to scratch the back of neck. “I’m sorry,” blue eyes darting to her and then to Rhaegar. “But I _promised_ Mother that I’d help Bran with his bow and arrow.”

 

Lord Stark sighs and then nods. “Alright, fine. Go on,” waving a hand towards the castle. “Go find your brother.”

 

Robb apologizes once more to both her and Rhaegar before going off as his father bid. Lord Stark looks at her for a moment, weighing something in his mind before turning to Jon and beckoning him over with a hand.

 

Jon approaches, a skeptical look on his face as he gives her one quick glance before settling on his father. “Yes, Lord Stark?”

 

_Lord Stark. He has to call him by his title. Not even “father”. What child deserves that?_

 

It bothers her. Not at all sitting right with her.

 

Lord Stark rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder, looking at him square in the eyes. “Can you escort the princess and Ser Barristan out to the wolfswood for a while? You know most of it probably better than anyone.”

 

The request is gentle, but she knows Jon doesn’t have much of a choice. Something tells her that Jon wouldn’t have said no either—if the way he looks at his father like he’s… everything, is anything to go by. She tries not to feel pity because that’s an ugly emotion. One she doesn’t like very much.

 

Jon accepts and she’s surprised by how Rhaegar gives another clap on the back while thanking him. It’s too familiar. Jon just takes it in stride and smiles sheepishly.

 

They depart from Lord Stark and Rhaegar—her brother telling her to be careful and sending her off with a kiss on her forehead. The three of them head off to the stables, Jon leading the way, shoulders visibly tense. When they got there Jon lead them to where the royal party’s steads were. Jon went to get a stable boy to help ready their mounts. She stopped to give Rose a pat on her snout, murmuring that Rhaegar would come to her soon. The horse just gave a loud whinny sound at that and she kept it moving.

 

Seeing Silver was like a warm balm over her soul. Her coat looked to be freshly brushed and her silky mane sparkled. She couldn’t wait any longer.

 

Jon came back with a short, pudgy boy armed with saddles, but he pauses mid-stride looking her over in confusion.

 

“Ah, Your Grace?”

 

Daenerys’ eyebrows furrow. “Yes?”

 

He hands off the other saddles to the boy before coming over and stopping in front of her, looking troubled. “How can you ride like that?” Grey eyes trailing over her, inspecting her. “Will it be comfortable?”

 

Her hands involuntarily fly to her mid-section, now just as confused as he is. There’s nothing wrong as far she can tell looking down, eyes roving over her dress, looking for some sort of mishap. _The dress…_ she realizes as her hands sweep over the blue material.

 

Daenerys breaths out a laugh watching as Jon becomes even more confused, now by her increasing laughter. _Oh, boys could be so dense sometimes._

 

When she finally calms down, she goes on to tell that she’d be just fine. The dress is no hindrance at all with it being a pretty simple one. She’d get on Silver just fine.

 

“Do you need help mounting?” He motions over to Silver. “Or perhaps I could fetch some riding breeches for you? I wouldn’t want you to—”

 

She watches with amusement as he gestures wildly towards her dress with a blush crawling up his neck, more closer to the lower region of it—around her hips.

 

_Show my smallclothes?_ She wants to ask it so bad, just to see that blush grow more and more, but Ser Barristan is here and she has to remind herself she’s only just met this boy, that she’s the princess and she cannot be indecent.

 

So, she just settles for a sly remark, “Don’t worry, Jon Snow. I can handle myself.” And because she can’t help herself, she adds. “If you’re that worried, just look away. Not that you should be looking anyway.”

 

That startles him most greatly. Eyes blinking rapidly and lips parted in disbelief. The blush on his cheeks is a pretty scarlet as he rushes off to help the stable boy, nearly tripping.

 

The two of them ready the horses and after Jon went to go fetch one of his own, they were off marching through the front gates.

 

As Jon led them away from the castle, Ser Barristan started chatting with him about the land and such. Daenerys really had no input other than saying that she had never seen so much vast, empty land all at once. Jon just smiled at that, the blush still at his neck and cheeks, but now fading into a pink.

 

And it was true. King’s Landing was all she knew and there was no such there as acres and acres of open space there—just piled houses and brothels, narrow alleys and uneven streets. To be out here excited her tremendously and to her pleasure, Silver gave what she interpreted as pleased neighing, both of them new to the open land of the North.

 

“Your Grace,” Jon called out, turning in his saddle to look at her. She gives him her undivided attention, eyebrows raised in questioning. “Trotting along and showing you the view is very well and all,” he pauses, looking around before smirking just slightly. _Mischievously_. “But you have a very fine stead and the true fun in riding is the wind.”

 

Before she or Ser Barristan can say anything, Jon is kicking the sides of his stallion and riding off into the thick treeline ahead in full speed, snow kicking up under behind him.

 

Her hearts thunders dangerously as she watches him go and she can’t but to kick up Silver and dash right after him—cheeks stretched with a wide smile.

 

Ser Barristan sputters from behind and Daenerys can hear him picking up the pace to keep up, but she doesn’t spare him a backwards glance only looking forward, bright amethyst eyes trained intently on Jon.

 

The green foliage around her passes through a series of blurs as she rides hard and fast to catch up with Jon Snow. It doesn’t take very long, as Jon said Silver was a very fine stead—a strong and fast mare.

 

He meets her gaze as she rides up—the two of them now side by side. She notes his eyes sparkling and for the first time, a true smile. Genuine and real. It makes her heart do the recurring stuttering every time she looked at him, but it also makes her feel weightless. A good kind of weightless.

 

“Enjoying the wind?” Jon yells over the stomping of the horses, smile still there and still very real.

 

Daenerys can’t but to reciprocate the grin with one of her own. “As you said, fun!”

 

Jon laughs and she finds herself laughing with him. At what? She didn’t have a clue, but it felt good. _This_ felt good.

 

Their surroundings making her heart come alive. She likes it here. “It’s beautiful here,” she yells, eyes alight. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

 

Jon gives her a gentle smile, black curls whipping across his face.

 

With some pity, she whips her head around to find Ser Barristan still a few feet behind even if he was riding just as hard and fast. She gives a nod back to draw Jon’s attention to Ser Barristan. “Let’s slow down,” she suggests and Jon follows her lead as she pulls the reins on Silver, making her lessen her pace to a trot once again.

 

Ser Barristan gives them a disapproving look as he rides up to them and they both apologize as he grumbles—not at all like a true knight and more like a grumpy cat. Jon looks over at her, lips pursed and mirth all in his eyes. They both pause before bursting into loud, rambunctious laughter. It just makes Ser Barristan take his reins and trot around them, going off a little ways ahead—huffing and grumbling the whole way.

 

Jon tries to regain his breath, wiping a finger at his watery eyes. “Oh, I am sorry, Your Grace,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. “I didn’t mean to upset Ser Barristan.”

 

“Don’t worry about him,” pausing to calm herself before continuing. “He just worries a lot, that’s all.”

 

They take another moment to catch the rest of their breaths. Just as Daenerys is about to suggest going for another hard ride, maybe a race, Jon snaps his head towards his left, eyes wide in alert.

 

“Do you hear that, Your Grace?”

 

It’s still and quiet as she leans forward in her saddle, straining to hear whatever it was that Jon did. Then there is something low and whimpery. She gasps in surprise and Jon knows she hears it, too.

 

Not even thinking twice, Daenerys dismounts and grabs Silver’s reins, bringing her along as she starts in that direction. Jon also hops down from his mount, but leaves it behind as he immediately goes over to Daenerys’ side, his warmth ever present. She tries not to think too much about it.

 

They follow the whimpering as it draws closer and closer. Not one of them making a sound, in case it could be something they would rather not want to come upon.

 

A horrid smell creeps up on them and it becomes even more rancid as they finally see what’s been making the noise. Gasping, she takes Jon’s arm, not thinking about it, just horrified at the sight before them.

 

An animal lays before them in a bloodied heap, its huge body half-buried into the snow. It had been long dead, so the whimpering hadn’t come from it. Jon crouches and reaches out at something digging near the beast’s belly.

 

“Oh, my…” she whispers, awestruck.

 

In Jon’s arms is a furry white bundle, a small thing. It’s a pup, tiny and wriggling around. They both look at each other in wonder, before Jon turns back to look at the beast, assessing it.

 

“It’s a direwolf, Your Grace.”

 

As far as she knew direwolves had been gone for hundreds of years, just like the dragons of old. The only direwolves she’d ever seen were those painted on Stark banners. This was special.

 

Moving past him, she crouches down to find five more pups. They are small things, not big as their mother, so she’s able to scoop up three of them in the cradle of her arms. “Oh, Jon,” she breathes out, enraptured with them. “They’re wonderful.”

 

Jon can’t take his eyes off of the one in his arms, entirely too taken with it. “There are six of them,” he says, eyes trained on the small ball of fur wrestling around in his arms. “Five Stark children and five direwolves.”

 

“That one should be yours.” She tells him, he’s also a Stark in anything but name. “Grab the others and let’s go.”

 

Jon scoops up the other two carefully and follows her as she and Silver make their way back to Jon’s horse and Ser Barristan.

 

The old knight looks positively unimpressed as he watches them with the pups and when he suggests that they leave them off in the woods, Daenerys protests it. _It will be a great gift,_ she’s sure of it. This feels right.

 

So, the three of them ride back carefully to Winterfell and when they come through the front gates, Robb and Lord Stark are there.

 

Lord Stark immediately doesn’t like the idea of his children having the direwolf pups, but then Bran comes out of seemingly nowhere and begs his father with the cutest little expression on his face. The Warden of the North couldn’t necessarily say no to that.

 

She watches with a smile on her face as the rest of the Stark children gather around and choose their pick of the litter. Little Rickon looks positively delighted and comes up with the name Shaggydog on the spot.

 

Jon comes up to her, his pup cradled in his arms. She smiles at the sight of it. Of all of them she likes the appearance of this one the best. “He’s beautiful. Any names?”

 

“Ghost,” he says very simply, clearly satisfied with his choosing and she’d have to agree. While all of the other pups made noises and such, this one was quiet and naturally, he was white as a ghost. She likes it.

 

Jon clears his throat, eyes dropping a bit before looking at her. “Earlier, Your Grace, you said you’d never seen anything like the wolfswood,” his whisper is slightly shaky. “That it was beautiful, but I know of a better place. More beautiful than the wolfswood.”

 

She can hear it, what he’s asking and it makes her throat tighten. He wants to spend more time with her, clearly enjoying their ride as much as she had. This is her chance, she knows it. To try—like she wanted to earlier.

 

“Show me.” It sounds a little desperate to her ears, but she can’t help it. Jon Snow was entirely more interesting than anything else she’d seen so far, than anyone else she met here.

 

Jon gulps and blinks rapidly. “Is there a place in the castle you know how to get to without needing help?”

 

“The Great Hall.”

 

He looks nervous as he darts his eyes around, looking for anyone that might notice them talking so closely, but everyone is so caught up in the new pups that they don’t get a second glance or even a first. “Meet me there at the hour of the wolf,” he rubs the fur of a sleeping Ghost in his arms. “That part of the keep sleeps by then.”

 

Seven hells, she’s nervous herself as she nods, nibbling on her bottom lip. “The hour of the wolf, Jon Snow.”

 

One last nervous smile and he’s off, walking away and away until she can’t even see him anymore. Some small voice in her head tells her that she shouldn’t be doing this. That this will bring her trouble, but she _has_ to know what this Jon Snow is made of.

 

She thinks of Robb Stark and what he told her yesterday. _If you choose to sate your curiosity, then you’ll understand…_

 

The words float through her head for the remainder of the day—right up until the hour of the wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo... what do you guys think? 👀 pls tell me! ❤️


	3. clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here we go, another chapter! hope you guys enjoy it! ❤️ (the comments on the last one really lifted my spirits, so thanks!) first jon pov, baby!

Puffs of breath swirl and circle, dancing in the cool air against the dark night sky until they vanished into nothing—more quickly replacing them. Arms burning from slashing and hitting the dummy in front of him over and again, making a steady rhythm. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck, but he couldn’t stop. This was the only way he could sort out what he was thinking, or at least _attempt._

 

Ever since he more or less asked the bloody princess of the Seven Kingdoms to meet him at the hour of the wolf, his mind had been in a constant whirlwind. Going from happiness, initial thoughts of: _Daenerys Targaryen wants to meet me! She asked me to_ show her. And then going to immense self-doubt: _Why would she even want to bother with someone like me? Surely, someone here is more interesting to her. More suited to her and what she’d like. Maybe Sansa—who he heard had spent time with the princess. Maybe Robb—they shared all of those lovely dances together. Started out unsure of each other and then by the end, comfortable and at ease. They laughed together and smiled at each other._ All while he watched. All he could ever do was watch.

 

But then, he’d think about how bright her pretty amethyst eyes were when they were riding through the wolfswood—the apples of her rosy cheeks stretched in a gleeful smile. How she snorted when they laughed at how grumpy Ser Barristan looked when he caught up to them. He wondered if she knew that her slim, elegant nose did a peculiar twitching thing when she laughed like that.

 

Probably not or else she wouldn’t do it. Jon would keep that little secret for himself.

 

So now, instead of happiness and self-doubt, there was confidence, albeit a bit fragile. The princess rode with _him_ through the woods. She smiled at _him_ and also laughed with _him._ Hells, if quieted his mind down enough he could still feel the warmth of her hand on his arm when they found the pups. The way her eyes were filled with wonder as she held onto them.

 

All of that was with him. And no else.

 

Sighing, Jon decides to leave the battering and slaying of this hay dummy for the night and puts away the wooden sword he was wielding. The pitch black of the night sky and the quiet of the castle tells him it’s almost time and he makes the decision to go check on Ghost before going anywhere near the Great Hall.

 

He walks through the halls and over to the residential area of the castle, but passes by the great chambers of his lord father and his wife, past the great oak doors that he knows his siblings are behind—taking their slumbers. Going down the hall and around the corridor he comes up on his chambers—if they could truly be called that—it was just a small room. Humble hearth crackling with the last of the firewood he’d put in there earlier, and an even more humble bed, pushed into the corner so he could have some space to walk around in, even if it would just be in a small circle.

 

Ghost doesn’t stir when he accidentally shuts the door a little too loud. _Rickety old thing._ The white of Ghost’s fur contrasts greatly with the dark bedding furs he was resting on. Jon goes over to give him a rub, still not quite believing he had a direwolf. Theon teased and said it was the runt of the litter. Calling it fitting, even.

 

Jon thought the Greyjoy learned his lesson earlier when he got knocked on his ass after openly mocking the princess and looking at her like he does the girls in the brothel. Jon had seen and it gave him cruel satisfaction to rain down on Theon like he never had before, to make him yield loudly in front of the princess.

 

After giving Ghost one last pat and putting in more firewood into the hearth, Jon gets going—shutting the door more silently this time, not wanting to alert anyone. If Arya saw him awake this time of night, she’d probably beg to make him _practice swords_ with her. And as much as he loved spending time with his baby sister and doting on her, he couldn’t chance it. The princess is waiting.

 

So, while his footsteps are light, his pace is fast and quick—wanting to get to her before anyone would notice that the princess was out and about at night.

 

He comes across a few stragglers on his way, servants and such, they give him nods of greeting and even a smile, but no really pays him any mind. _Bastards are never really paid much mind anyway_ , he thinks self-deprecating. Sure, the members of the house acknowledge him, there’s some who talk to him regularly, but most of them just keep a polite distance. He’s sure the Lady of the house has something to do with that.

 

Rounding the corner leading to the Great Hall, it’s with a pang of disappointment that he sees no one there. Thinking she maybe inside of the hall, he opens the heavy doors, but to no avail—nothing. Now the self-doubt comes rushing back in full force like a tidal wave. _What did you really think,_ a nasty voice scolds. It sounds a lot like Lady Catelyn, especially when it reminds him that he’s no one.

 

Trying to not drown in the overwhelming self-pity, he closes the door and makes the move to leave, join Ghost in bed and forget this ever happened. It’s a low whisper from the shadows that stops him in his tracks.

 

“Here,” the whisper says. “I’m here.”

 

Jon hesitantly goes towards it and before he can respond, a hooded figure pops out of the shadows making him jump like a startled cat. To his relief and his embarrassment it’s the princess. Relief because she was here and embarrassment because she was here and she saw him look like a frightened maid.

 

Her amethyst eyes shine with merriment. “Did I frighten you?”

 

“No,” he scoffs, clearly lying. “I just wasn’t expectin’ you to be there is all.”

 

The princess just smiles, the hood of her cloak hiding her Targaryen silver, but not her beauty. “Well, I did say I would be here,” she looks around, eyebrows raised. “It is the hour of the wolf is it not, my lord?” She teases.

 

Jon grumbles. “Why were you hiding like that anyway,” he brushes past her to leave out through a side door, not before checking to see if she was following—she was. “There’s no one here.”

 

“There could’ve been.” her voice lilting just so, and he just knows she’s smiling, amused by his flimsy irritation.

 

He quietly leads her outside, checking around to see not a soul in sight. _Good,_ he resolves. It’d be quite a scandal for the princess to be seen with him at such a time and especially when she was without Ser Barristan.

 

“Where is this place?” she asks, as they trudge along through the snow and mud. “This place of such beauty?”

 

Jon could laugh at how curious she sounds, voice light and happy. Not at all suspicious like it probably should be. He is a stranger after all, lowborn and nothing like all of the grandeur and nobility that she is.

 

“Just follow, we’re almost there, Your Grace.”

 

That does nothing to stop her from asking more questions much to his growing amusement. It grows even further when she huffs in annoyance and decides to be quiet after he gives her nothing but vague answers. He has a passing thought of her leaving and just deciding none of this was worth her time after all. The steady crunch of snow under her boots following him to the large iron gate just before them dismisses that thought just as quickly as it comes.

 

Wrapping a gloved hand around one of the iron bars of the gate, he pushes it open quite easily despite how heavy it is and goes in—holding the gate open for the princess. He keeps a keen eye as she passes by, watching her face transform from slight apprehension to confusion and then, lastly, something akin to awe.

 

He was hoping for that.

 

“Wow,” she breathes out into the crisp night air. The princess has kept herself rooted into one spot, feet firmly planted into the snow, but her eyes are everywhere. They take in the tall sentinels adorned with their grey-green needles. The large oaks, the towering hawthorns, and the shady ash trees. In the center of it all is the weirwood tree. Pale and foreboding, but not unpleasant.

 

Turning back to him with a small smile, she asks,“Is this what I think it is?”

 

Jon closes the gate behind them and trudges up to stand next to her, eyes trained on the carved face watching them. “Aye, the godswood, Your Grace.”

 

The princess puts her hood down as she approaches the weirwood, footsteps timid and unsure, but to him it looks like she’s gliding over the snow. The bottom of her woolen gown a soft whisper against the fresh blanket of the summer snow. She reaches a hand out to the carved face, lightly pressing against it for a moment before trailing her gloved fingertips along the dripping lines of the red sap that fall from the eyes.

 

“How sad,” she remarks, looking forlornly at the tree.

 

“What’s sad?”

 

Her fingertips go over the eyes. “It looks as if it’s crying,” she says, taking a step back to look, violet eyes never leaving its face, a frown taking place on hers. “Is it?”

 

That was something he couldn’t be sure of. He’s heard people say that about weirwoods, and he supposes that’s true, but it never made him feel sad. Not as sad as she looks, anyway.

 

_I didn’t bring her here to make her sad,_ Jon thinks miserably.

 

“I can’t say, Your Grace,” moving to come back to her side, looking at her from his periphery. “It’s a true observation, though. Many have said the same.”

 

The princess turns to him so suddenly, nearly making him stumble back in surprise. “Many have also said that one can never tell a lie in front of a weirwood,” she takes a step forward, staring him down through narrowed eyes. “Why did you bring me here, Jon Snow?”

 

“What—”

 

She takes another step forward, making him take one back.  “Isn’t this a sacred place, Jon Snow?”

 

Jon isn’t sure where she’s going with this, heart rate starting to climb as she continues to look at him with suspicion.

 

“Nothing to say?”

 

He gives her nothing but silence. Stunned and wholly confused.

 

“I’ll ask again, Jon Snow,” he finds that he likes the way she says his name. Elongated and somewhat teasing— even now, with her being every inch of intimidating and forward. “Why did you bring me to the sacred godswood of Winterfell? I may be the princess, but I still am an outsider. Is that wise?”

 

Now he finds that he doesn’t like the way she says _that._ Like he doesn’t know how to think for himself, he _does_. He’s always had to think for himself, more than his brothers and his sisters. Always.

 

_Is that wise?_ he repeats to himself bitterly. Jon isn’t a fool and he would like to think he’s not some green boy either. After all, he’s had to grow up ten times faster than Robb or Theon, or anyone else who wasn’t a bastard to a highborn lord. All his life he’s had to be wiser than his years. To know not to be anymore than what he was—the black stain on the Stark name. To not stand out. To stay out of the way.

 

And for all of the seven hells, he just wanted to be _nice_. Courteous and maybe even… friendly. Maybe he was a bit green for thinking he could ever be friends with a princess.

 

Feeling the irritation crawling up his spine, he tightens his jaw and stands his ground. No doubt his change in demeanor making the princess falter for a moment— if the way her eyes flicker briefly and her footsteps stutter, are anything to go by.

 

“And was it wise for _you_ , the princess, to follow a stranger into the night?” his voice gritty, frustration radiating off of him. “Was that wise, Your Grace?”

 

She recovers quickly, poised with a practiced stiffness, her own jaw just as tight as his. “So you deflect with you own questions, how clever.”

 

Jon can hear how she’s mocking him, he knows that sound very well—courtesy of Lady Stark and Sansa. Highborn ladies and their false words. It brings up all of his deepest insecurities, they mock him in their own fashion.

 

“This was a mistake. My apologies, Your Grace, for wasting your time,” he chuffs, a hollow and depressing sound. “I thought you’d like it here, but what do I know? I’m just some stupid bastard.”

 

Her face falls at that. Regal mask gone and in its place something else. Making her eyes go soft and mouth slack with surprise. Jon also knows pity when he sees it.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, voice impossibly quiet now. “You’re not stupid.”

 

Jon snorts, ignoring how her face sours at the sound. “Still a bastard, though.” It’s self-deprecating, he knows it and it’s no way to be in front of the princess of the Seven Kingdoms, but he cannot help it. Maester Luwin always says that habits are hard to break. And his worst one was constantly reminding himself of what he was in nearly all social interactions with those far more superior than him.

 

He watches as she opens her mouth to say something, struggling for a moment before snapping it shut, deciding not to comment altogether. The embarrassment is suffocating now. Making a fool of himself in front of royalty is _exactly_ what he wanted.

 

“It’s rather late, Your Grace, and maybe we should head back,” he suggests, already turning around and marching toward the gate— wanting nothing more than to leave this conversation behind. “Follow me and I can—”

 

“Daenerys.”

 

Stopping in his tracks, he shudders as the wind suddenly starts to pick up, the leaves rustling loudly, but the sound doesn’t make him miss it as she repeats it again.

 

“It’s Daenerys,” his ears perk up just the slightest bit at the sound of her coming up behind him. “And I would like to stay for a while… with you. Is that alright?”

 

Something deep inside stutters when he turns to find her looking up at him, it’s tender, the way she does. The way she sounds as well. It sounds a lot like an apology.

 

He nods mutely and shuffles past to sit on a large boulder that rests just before the pond. Daenerys follows suit. The boulder is large enough for them both, so really it’s no issue that she’s sitting next to him—but she’s so _close_. Their shoulders brush against each other and their puffs of breath join together in front of them.

 

The hairs at the back of his neck stand and he sits as still as the water.

 

“It is a nice gesture,” Daenerys breaks the silence after a time, eyes trained before her, unblinking. “That has not slipped past me. I am glad to see the place of your old gods.”

 

Jon shrugs it off. “I promised to show you somewhere better than the wolfswood. I am glad you came at all.”

 

“Well, thank you,” she sounds sincere when she says it and sure enough, when they look at each other, he can see the earnesty in the way her eyes shine. “I will find a way to repay you. For this and the wolfswood.”

 

He snorts once more, shaking his head in bemusement. “And how would you do that, Your Gra—”

 

When she cuts her eyes over at him and raises one single brow, he retracts. _Right, Daenerys._

 

Clearly his throat loudly, swallowing thickly, he corrects himself, “Daenerys. How would you do that? Repay me?”

 

Even that sounds ridiculous to his own ears. The bloody princess is meant to repay _him._

 

Daenerys smirks, casting a mischievous look his way. “If you ever happen to find yourself in King’s Landing, come to me and I shall show you the capital.”

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever go to King's Landing,” Jon shakes his head, trying to place himself anywhere that isn’t the North. He fails. “Nor would I want to.”

 

She frowns again, eyebrows bunching together. “Why not?”

 

“Stark men don’t fare well down South— as you know.”

 

He instantly regrets it the moment it falls from his lips. It’s meant to be a jest, but the princess’ face falls flat. Why did he have to be such an idiot?

 

Daenerys stiffens, staring at him for a moment, and then chuckles mordantly, a sound he finds not to his liking. “Yes, my father was the Mad King and he burned your grandfather, tormented your uncle with strangulation, and called for your father’s head.” He doesn’t like the way she sounds like this, voice laced with the most poisonous venom. It makes him flinch. “Yes, Jon Snow, I know it well.”

 

She’s mocking him again, but he’s not irritated, the shame of making such an err crawling up his neck in a red flush. “That’s not what I meant, Your Gr—”

 

Her laugh cuts him off, an odd strangled sound, stunning him into silence as he watches her shoot up and stalk off over to the weirwood, moving so suddenly that a harsh breeze whips across his face. “Oh, I know what you meant. I am the Mad King’s daughter. Rhaegar Targaryen is my brother. The things they did all those years ago will always follow me and because of that I am not meant to be trusted, is that it?”

 

She stops to look at him, searching his face for something. When he tries to speak, to say _anything_ , his throat seizes up and Daenerys just shrugs it off, continuing her spiel.

 

“Stark men don’t fare well in the south you say,” she shakes her head. “Well, it’s no secret that after the war the North isn’t fond of us,” her voice breaks off into something less angry and more sad, making Jon prickle with shame. “You should’ve seen some of the looks we got coming through the town. Even me, and I was only a babe in my mother’s belly when Westeros bled. Some of those looks were of pure loathing. I know what they saw and I know they think I’m just like them or could be, anyway,” the look she casts over at him nearly breaks his heart. “How is that fair, Jon Snow?”

 

Without even thinking of it, he rises quickly to his feet and goes over to her small frame leaning against the old weirwood. He hesitates still when he reaches out to place a gloved hand onto her shoulder— a small, thin but warm thing— and is settled when she doesn’t pull away, only choosing to stare up at him. “It isn’t fair, Daenerys,” his throat suddenly dry, voice coming out rough. “I am sorry for the jest— it was in poor taste. But you’re nothing like them. Not mad or cruel. You’re kind.”

 

Daenerys inhales sharply, mesmerizing violet eyes widening a fraction, somehow making them look even more round. And they were by far the roundest eyes he’s ever seen. Something buzzes inside of his chest as he watches the wind sweep a silver tendril across her face, across her ruddy cheeks until it whispers against her plush lips.

 

“How do you know?” she whispers softly, eyes trained onto his.

 

And how does he _know?_ Jon only just met her, their shared time in the woods just a rare occurrence. But… he thinks of her face when they were galloping through the trees, her smile and her laugh. Jon knew that the Mad King was indeed, _mad_ , and he knew that King Rhaegar had done things during the Rebellion that only added fuel to the wildfire, but as far as he could see Daenerys wasn’t like that. Even if she wasn’t so sure of it herself— from the way she held her breath, waiting for his answer as if _he_ made any difference. The princess is good. That he was certain of.

 

Jon only hopes she can be certain of it, too. “I have a feeling, Daenerys—”

 

“A feeling.” she repeats flatly, interrupting, her shoulders slumping under his touch. Disappointment, he notices.

 

Jon brings his other hand onto her free shoulder, tightening his grip just only a little, just so he can make her understand. So that she’ll listen. “Yes, a feeling, princess,” he urges, taking a step into her space. “I may not know much, but I know good when I see it. There’s something gentle about you,” he pauses, looking for the right words, not wanting to mess this up. “You took the time to approach me just the night before and you made that joke.”

 

Daenerys lets out a breathy laugh. “Well, it did seem pretty dead to me and you were just whacking away. I’ve never pitied a dummy made of hay as much as that one.”

 

“Yes, well,” he breaks off into a laugh of his own— because he _really_ had been torturing that dummy— before continuing, wanting his point to be made. “I wasn’t having a great night, but never mind that,” sighing, he looks down upon her with a gentle gaze. “Daenerys, you came up to me and talked to me because you’re kind. Today, in the wolfswood when we found the pups, you said one should be mine. I was going to suggest that maybe Robb could have two because he’s a Stark and I’m not—” she interrupts with a sound of disagreement that makes him laugh again. “—but _see_ , you told me to take one because you’re kind. You helped bring back the direwolves to my siblings because you’re kind.”

 

She gives him a small smile, shaking her head. “You are a Stark.”

 

It stuns him how matter-of-fact she sounds when she says it. Like there’s no doubt in the world about it. Like she sees him as a true Stark, through and through. No one except his siblings has looked at him that way. Not even his father. If Lady Catelyn could hear princess right now…

 

“That’s not the point, Daenerys,” he says, trying to expel all of the feelings that are starting to claw their way into his heart. Having those feelings would be pointless, but his heart is opening slowly in his chest. He cannot help it. “You have shown me a kindness that I haven’t felt in a long time,” he falls quiet for a moment, looking down at the snow where they stand, taking in the sounds of her breathing. “That’s how I know.”

 

He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it when he finally looks up to see her eyes looking slightly glassy as if they’re shining with tears, but he doesn’t imagine the hand that comes up to grab onto his forearm, the way it squeezes twice and then holds on for a beat until it’s gone.

 

And he knows for sure he couldn’t be imagining her soft voice when she says, “Thank you, Jon.”

 

Only a dead man would not be able to feel anything after that, and as he looks into her bright eyes, Jon realizes—with increasing horror—that he is very much alive.

 

* * *

 

 

So, they spend a lot of time together after that. Well, as much as they can.

 

She’s the princess and honored guest of Winterfell after all, so she’s always being whisked away by someone. Sansa with sewing and gossip. Lady Catelyn and her almost daily walks of the castle grounds that she loves to bring Daenerys in tow on. Bran and Rickon love to find her and do just about anything with her— especially going to the library and having her read stories of dragon knights and warrior princesses to them, which Jon had happened upon once or twice. Arya drags her around almost everywhere— the two of them becoming thick as thieves. Robb also takes the princess for walks among the castle and they chat. Jon isn’t too fond of that, but the princess doesn’t seem to mind, so he lets it go. But he hates the way Lady Catelyn looks upon them approvingly, even more so when she gets that _look_ into her eye. Calculating.

 

The princess also naturally spends some time with her ladies, especially with a girl from the Summer Isles named Missandei. Daenerys tells him that she’s her closest and dearest friend. Oddly enough, though, it seems like King Rhaegar is the person she spends the least amount of time with. When Jon asks her about that, she just sighs and says that the king spends a lot of time either holed up in his guest chambers, talking with Ser Arthur, or in meetings with his father.

 

But the King also has a habit of watching the daily sparring sessions in the courtyard— inspecting from his view on the parapet. It unnerves Jon how he always feels like he’s being especially watched, but he shakes it off to the best of his ability. The King is nice enough, he supposes, always coming down after they’ve finished and lingering to talk with them all.

 

Although, the King looks at him mostly when he comes to talk and always finds a way to include him in the conversation. And he always finds a way to give him a compliment on his sparring— even giving him tips and having _Ser Arthur_ give his input as well.

 

That is something that takes getting used to.

 

And everyone may get their time with Princess Daenerys, but so does he. She takes frequent rides out into the wolfswood and Jon is allowed to accompany her under the guise of being a guide, but when they get out there, just the two of them, they ride until the wind whips tears from their cheeks. Ser Barristan has gotten used to their routine and chooses to post under the same tree every time while waiting for them to get back. If he disapproves, Jon can’t tell because he always looks at them with a fondness that makes him feel warm and… accepted.

 

It’s something that makes him feel better than he’s ever felt, but it also worries him. The royal party won’t stay forever and when they do leave, he knows that feeling will fade. And he’s seventeen, a man grown, it’s past time for him to find his own way. Lady Catelyn surely doesn’t want him in Winterfell forever.

 

_She must think I am looking to usurp Robb’s place one day, a greedy bastard looking to take away his true born brother’s claim._

 

Fat chance of that. Jon knows his time is up and he must do something, decide soon.

 

So when he and Daenerys ride back into the gates of Winterfell after one of their wolfswood rides and Jon sees his Uncle Benjen there in the courtyard with his father and in his all black attire—it comes to him right then. _The Night's Watch._

 

Jon hurries to dismount and rushes his uncle with a fierce hug, making the older man shake with surprised laughter. “Careful now,” Uncle Benjen chuckles, hugging back just as tight. “Not as young and spry as I used to be.”

 

“Uncle Benjen!”

 

Benjen moves back to hold Jon at arm’s length, looking him over with a beaming smile. “Look at you, lad. All grown up.”

 

Jon feels like he can breathe easier. His uncle was always one of his favorite people. He never treated Jon any differently and loved him just as he loved Sansa or Robb. Being a bastard didn’t matter to his uncle.

 

Benjen being here was also the perfect chance for him to make his way up to the Wall. There was nothing here for him in Winterfell.

 

Ned clears his throat, making his presence known before lifting a hand and motioning behind Jon. “May I introduce Princess Daenerys of the House Targaryen,” Jon sheepishly backs away from his uncle, making way for Daenerys to come forward and watching her with a keen eye. Today, the princess is a vision, wearing a deep red gown with a square neckline, long bell sleeves, and fine black stitching. Her starshine hair done up in intricate braids. There was no mistaking she was a Targaryen princess. “Your Grace, this is my brother, Benjen of House Stark and brother of the Night’s Watch.”

 

Benjen bows deeply at the waist and then reaches out for her hand to place a courteous kiss upon it. “Your Grace, it is an honor to have you in our home.”

 

“It is an honor to be in your home,” she smiles, practiced and poised with grace. Jon can’t look away. “I am enjoying my stay here in Winterfell very much.”

 

Benjen nods. “I am glad to hear it, Your Grace,” he looks behind her for a moment, giving Ser Barristan a nod of acknowledgment, and notices the horses behind them. “Went for a ride, Your Grace?”

 

Her face lights up and she looks back at Silver who is now being taken back to the stables by a hand. “Ah, yes,” she looks over to Jon and smiles. “Your nephew here guides Ser Barristan and I out into the wolfswood every so often,” she doesn’t notice the way Benjen’s face changes slightly at that, but Jon does and he averts his gaze before Benjen is able to give him a look. “He is very capable and knows the woods very well. In fact, that is where we found the direwolves.”

 

Jon hears the confusion in his uncle’s tone. “Direwolves?”

 

“The princess and Jon found six direwolf pups out there about a moon ago,” Ned informs his brother, sounding uneasy himself. “I let the children each have one of their own. Not that I had much choice, Rickon would’ve probably yelled clear across the Neck if I said no.”

 

Jon chances a look at his uncle to see him looking properly shocked. “Wow, that is… very strange,” Benjen muses, “but at any rate, I'm glad they have them.”

 

Daenerys is about to add onto that but the loud thundering of multiple feet alert them all to the rest of his siblings. They all attack Benjen with hugs, even Rickon who’s never even met his uncle yet, only doing so because everyone else is. Jon watches with amusement as they all talk over each other, not noticing how that Benjen isn’t keeping up very well. Arya has her pup, Nymeria, with her and she shows her off proudly to Benjen.

 

Jon just feels content watching them all, even more so that Daenerys is right there with him. It’s a pretty picture, his family, all of the people he cares about in one place and while he enjoys watching them all, it also makes him somber.

 

_This will all be over soon,_ he thinks morosely. _I can’t stay forever._ He looks over to Daenerys who’s giggling at Rickon imitating Nymeria and her yapping. _And neither can she._

 

There’s a weighted feeling, something burning into the side of his face and when he seeks out the source of it, he’s startled to find the King standing a few feet away, looking at him. His fingers of his right hand start flexing as Jon stares back. Not being able to look away for some odd reason.

 

He doesn’t know what that look is in the King’s eyes, but it’s nothing good. It looks… sad.

 

_Is he sad?_ Jon wonders.

 

Fingers thinner than his lace their way into his own, stopping the rapid flexing of his right hand. Daenerys gives him a quick squeeze before anyone can notice and pulls away just as fast. Only a small private smile on her face left as she turns to look back at everyone.

 

It’s pathetic to him how fast his heart rate has become and it’s even more pathetic to him how he grows green with envy when Robb breaks away from everyone and comes over to ask Daenerys if she wants to go the glass gardens. Something ugly twists in his gut as she accepts and doesn’t even look back when she goes off with Robb arm-in-arm. It’s not her fault and it’s not even Robb’s. His own inadequacy is to blame. He can’t help but to think that if he were Jon Stark, he’d be able to go off with the princess in the day to see flowers.

 

And as if his mood wasn’t sour enough, Theon strolls up with a knowing grin, stopping beside him to watch Robb and Daenerys saunter off. “Don’t look so broody, Snow,” Jon struggles not to roll his eyes so far back lest they might get stuck. “You cannot have her all to yourself.”

 

Jon does bristle at that, the implications of that sentence very dangerous, but he recovers quick enough to not give himself completely away. Instead of telling Theon off like he would normally would, he feigns ignorance. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Oh, please,” Theon snorts, folding his arms over his chest, that smarmy grin still in place. “You and the princess are always going off on your little rides together and I see how you look at her.”

 

He inhales the crisp air, looking away from Theon and back to his family, still all gathered up and chatting away merrily. He’s also looking for an excuse. “The princess likes to go for a ride from time to time—” Theon casts him a lecherous glance, no doubt thinking of some crude jape, but Jon does not give him the chance to tell it, “—and I am merely her guide which Lord Stark has tasked me with being. That is all.”

 

For a second it seems as if the Greyjoy buys it. He quiets, eyes becoming less shrewd, pursing his thin lips for a moment while nodding. It is _only_ for a second, though because immediately after he leans into Jon’s space and whispers, “Then why do you two always leave Ser Barristan behind? And what of your frequent midnight praying in the godswood?”

 

Jon takes a step back, startled and confused as he takes in Theon’s smirk. _Like the cat got the cream_ , Jon observes, shock mounting into rampant irritation. _What the hell was Theon playing at?_

 

“The fuck do you want, Theon?” he seethes through clenched teeth, not even trying to pretend anymore and just wanting to know his intentions. “Why the hell are you following us?”

 

Theon snickers. “Wow, Snow do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Well if you had one—” when Jon takes a step forward, he quickly raises his hands in surrender, only choosing to continue when Jon steps back. “—or do you kiss Daenerys Targaryen? I bet she has sweet lips. Maybe Robb will tell us—”

 

It doesn’t even take him two strides to get up in Theon’s space and yank him up by his collar, knuckles white as the bone. “Say anything—” he growls, taking cruel satisfaction in Theon’s face crumpling in shock, “—and you won’t have a tongue to say anything else.”

 

“Hey, now,” Ned comes over, taking Jon by the shoulder with a strong grip and pushing him back. Benjen isn’t far behind, and the rest of his siblings are all watching them—mainly him. “What is the meaning of this?” He can feel that familiar feeling of shame growing, but it’s nothing compared to his current irritation. _All the seven hells damn Theon Greyjoy._

 

Jon doesn’t even know why Robb even likes him.

 

His shoulder gets shaken and he snaps out of his loathing to see his father staring at him with those stone eyes, so much like his. Everything Jon had in looks was so much like his. Everyone said so, but what of his mother? Does he have anything of her? Or did she give nothing him but this life—a bastard’s life. Jon can’t help but wonder. And sometimes, as much as he admires and loves his father, he also loathes him.

 

_Father knew what she was like, but I did not_ , _and he doesn’t tell me. Not once._

 

Suddenly, the weight of his family’s stares— _their judgment_ —is too much for him to bear. This was the first time Uncle Benjen has been here in years and he let Theon of all people get under his skin.

 

He wants nothing more than to leave, be rid of it all, so he shrugs his father off, ignores Arya’s calls for him and stalks off.

 

He leaves off in a hurry, so fast, breezing by the King who’d been watching the whole encounter, watching _him_. If Jon had bothered to stop, maybe he would’ve noticed the queer look in the King’s eye.

 

Troubled and mournful.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s another hour until the hour of the wolf and when he meets Daenerys, so Jon is in his chambers lying in bed while Ghost is sleeping on his abdomen. It’s only been a little less than a moon and already Ghost had been growing at a rapid rate. All of the direwolves had. He’d give it a sennight until the wolf wouldn’t be able to fit in the cradle of his arms.

 

A brief knock sounds at his door, Benjen popping his head in.

 

“Hey, son.”

 

Jon sees this as the perfect opportunity.

 

Before Benjen even gets the chance to close the door properly, Jon says, “I want to join the Night’s Watch.”

 

His uncle halts, stilling with the door in his grasp, before breathing out a chuckle. “Are you sure about that?” he asks, stepping to close the door quietly.

 

“Yes,” he answers, moving over to make room for Benjen to sit while being careful not to jostle Ghost too much. “I am. Let me come with you.”

 

Benjen sits on the edge of the bed, reaching over to give Ghost a rub and then looking him in the eye. Jon’s never seen him look so serious before. His father is the serious one, but Uncle Benjen has always been smiling and laughing— not that he is a fool, he is a man of the Night’s Watch. Right now though, he’s under his uncle’s scrutiny.

 

“Jon, why would you want to come to the Wall?”

 

He laughs incredulously. “Surely, you must know I can’t stay here.”

 

“Is this about that Greyjoy boy?” Benjen asks.

 

Why would this be about Theon? Sure, Theon is annoying, but he’s not capable of running Jon out of his home. No, only himself—and Lady Catelyn.

 

“No, it’s not about him,” Jon sighs, carefully putting Ghost to the other side of him and sitting up. “I am a bastard. I’m not like Robb or Bran or even little Rickon. I’ll have no lands or titles to inherit from father. The Night’s Watch is my only choice.”

 

Benjen shakes his head. “You wouldn’t know what you’d be giving up.”

 

“I have nothing to give up,” Jon says solemnly.

 

A long beat of silence passes between them and Jon can tell that his uncle is struggling with this—for whatever reason. His long face is sad and his eyes are looking at him, but Jon thinks he’s not _seeing_ him. The grey of irises are thin—blown out by the black of his pupils, gaze unfocused. It feels like he’s seeing something else. Jon doesn’t know what to feel about that.

 

Finally, Benjen breaks the unnerving quiet by asking, “Are you sure?”

 

Jon thinks of Arya and her crooked smiles, their late nights practicing with the sword. He thinks of Robb and the brotherly love they share, how they would die for each other if need be. Little Bran and Rickon’s faces swim before him with their childish glee. Even Sansa with her haughty nature plagues his mind.

 

If he goes, he has a sneaking suspicion he’ll never see most of them ever again. They’ll all grow and get married and have castles and holdfasts to maintain. He’ll only have the cold of the Wall and the honor of protecting the realm with the rest of the Watch. No children, no wife, no land, no name to carry on.

 

And perhaps that’s enough. As long as he had Uncle Benjen with him.

 

So, Jon musters up his courage and gives his uncle a decisive nod. Benjen stays for a little while after to talk some more, but thankfully he leaves before midnight, telling Jon he’ll talk to his father about it.

 

Looking out the ragged shutters of his single window, Jon spies the gaping darkness of the midnight sky. He gets up and throws his boots, gloves, and cloak back on. Ghost is no longer sleeping, but lounging in front of the small hearth burning, head resting on his forearms, intelligent red eyes following his every step.

 

Jon kneels down next to him. “I’ll be back, boy,” he runs a hand through the soft white fur and Ghost makes a keening sound. Jon has no doubt that he’ll be asleep very soon.

 

He makes the routine walk to their new meeting place, The Broken Tower. Meeting near the Great Hall had become too troublesome and he would not let anyone catch the princess out at night. No one even bothered to go near the Broken Tower, so it naturally was the best place for them to meet before going off into the godswood.

 

She’s standing at the base of the tower, her hooded figure turned away from him as she looks up at the stars. Jon entertains the thought of scaring her as she did him the first night they met up, but he couldn’t chance it. _Does she fright easily?_ he wonders bemusedly. Perhaps he’ll find out another day.

 

“Are you coming or are you gonna stargaze all night?”

 

Daenerys turns, not even startled by his sudden presence. “About time you came,” she says with a dazzling smile. “It’s cold and you know I’m not used to the climate yet.”

 

“Oh, how could I forget?,” Jon snorts, lending out an arm for her to take. “The princess of the Seven Kingdoms is nothing but a girl of summer.”

 

He groans when he she strikes him in the side— _gods, she’s strong_ —but she takes his arm still, the warmth making him forget the pain. “Whatever, just take me to the weirwood.”

 

“If anyone else knew about you going to the godswood every night, they’d think you’ve taken the old gods.”

 

Daenerys chuffs. “But no one knows, Jon Snow.”

 

_Theon Greyjoy does,_ he wants to tell her, but it’d only cause her worry and as much as Theon reminds of something akin to annoying pest, he doesn’t want him to be under fire by the royal party. If Theon ever thinks of doing anything, Jon will handle it and that should be enough.

 

He just gives her a mummer’s smile and leads her to the iron gate of the godswood. Daenerys sighs in relief as she takes in the sight of the weirwood and all its red leaves and white oak. Jon has found that the princess had taken extreme liking to the tree, no longer saddened by it. He takes a seat on the boulder, watching her go off to the tree and reaching a hand to the face. It’s something she does every night.

 

“I have news of my mother,” she says, looking still to the tree, fingertips trailing down the red sap.

 

On their third night of being in the godswood, Daenerys told him of the Queen and her health. How she had been too sick to even get out of bed. He knew she worried about her mother day and night. That night, Jon led her in front of the tree and they knelt together to pray for the health of Queen Rhaella. Jon didn’t know much about her, but Daenerys was fond of her and that was enough for him to care about the Queen’s wellbeing too.

 

“And how does she fare?”

 

Daenerys takes a moment to answer, coming over to sit by him and looking out into the pond. “She fares better than she has in a while. She can walk again, but only with a cane and the steady presence of a guard at her back. I think her being Regent has helped improve her health. It gives her something meaningful to do and she loves being busy.”

 

It’s a good thing, but her face isn’t showing any signs of happiness. A positive change in her mother’s health is what she had been hoping for, so Jon doesn’t understand why she looks so somber.

 

“What is it?” he asks, taking her gloved hands into his own, leather on leather. It takes another long moment of him searching her face for her to come out with an answer.

 

“My mother sends for us to come back home. When my brother first told me we were coming here, I was terrified,” Daenerys sighs, shaking her head with an empty laugh. “I don’t know why I’m so saddened to leave.”

 

Jon blinks openly for a bit, letting it sink in. He knew the princess would have to leave eventually and he thought he’d be alright, but his stomach feels hollow and his breath grows still. _Not enough time,_ comes a whisper in his head. _Not enough._

 

“Jon,” she calls out, her voice coming through distorted like his head had been dunked under one of the hot springs. “Jon, you’re squeezing my hands pretty tightly.”

 

His fingers snap open, releasing the hard grip he had on her hands. They’re dainty, pretty things and he had been crushing them. “Sorry,” he mutters, blinking rapidly. “Sorry.”

 

“Hey, it’s alright,” she whispers, as if she was calming a frightened mare. Not like it helps because his chest is too busy filling up with pins and needles—breath now coming out in harsh puffs of air before him. If he’s breathing, why does it feel like he can’t? Daenerys’ face falls, moving at once to take him by the shoulders. “Jon, it’s alright.” she repeats, just as calm as before, but her fingers are gripping him with urgency.

 

_It’s not alright,_ that whisper comes back. _You’ll never see each other again. You’ll never see your family again._

 

“Get off,” he commands, twisting away and getting up to pace around, snow crunching under his thick boots. “You’re leaving, I’m leaving, everyone will leave.” This whole month was a farce, everyone will have to face reality soon. “You’re going back to your castle, and I’m going to the Wall.”

 

Uncle Benjen is probably talking to his father right now, telling him that Jon is ready to go to the Wall, but he’s realizing that he’s not. He’s not ready to never see his family—he casts a glance over to Daenerys, rounded amethyst orbs following him, bottom lip trapped between teeth—or his friends. Once he’s gone, they’ll forget all about him.

 

Daenerys rises wearily to her feet and approaches him slowly, stopping to stand in front of him before he burns a hole into the ground. “Jon,” she whispers, reaching a hand out to his cheek. Instead of cold leather, there’s the subtle warmth of her bare hand and the warmth of her eyes pouting into his. “Tell me what’s going on.”

 

Biting back a curse, he closes his eyes and tries his best to still his mind. When he’s able to think clearly enough he tells her about going to the Wall and asking his Uncle Benjen to go with him. He explains to her why he feels the need to leave, but also why he’s afraid of leaving. Jon finishes and she just grabs the other side of his face, making his eyes snap open.

 

“You will not be forgotten, Jon.” The determination staring back at him is like feeding fuel to a fire. It burns to look at her when she’s like this. Resolute and unwavering. It burns but he cannot turn away, content to let the flames wash over him. “I will not forget the only friend outside of the ones I have known my entire life. Your family will not forget you. Anyone who has ever met you would have a hard time forgetting you, Jon Snow.” she shakes him a little as if trying to make him see sense.

 

“And don’t think for a second I’ll let you waste away at the Wall. You are too talented, too good. I’ll find something else for you.”

 

Jon doesn’t understand why she talks of the Night’s Watch like it was nothing. He grew up reading and hearing stories of the valor of the black brothers. Their honor and bravery to shield all of the realm from Wildlings and ten of thousands of years ago—The Others.

 

“I won’t waste away. The Night’s Watch is a great honor.”

 

Daenerys sighs and shakes her head fondly. “Jon, maybe once it was, but those days are long gone. Now it is nothing but a roaming place for rapers, thievers, and vile men. Your uncle may be one of the few honorable men left at the Wall.”

 

He doesn’t want to believe it. “How do you know that?”

 

“Because Jon, I am to be queen one day,” she says, with an upward tilt of her chin, it brings their faces closer. Jon tries to beat down the flush that’s rising. “I know where the realm places the unfit men and I know where the unfit men go when they don’t want to meet the King's justice.”

 

_Is that why Uncle Benjen was hesitant when I said I wanted to go? Should I go?_ He doesn't think Daenerys would lie, but if that was the truth then why couldn’t his uncle just tell him that?

 

“Do you trust in me, Jon Snow?” her eyes never leaving his, her thumbs lightly caressing his cheekbones. “We are in front of the weirwood. I cannot tell a lie here.”

 

A chuckle bubbles out of him and he ducks his head. “I trust you.”

 

“Look me in my eyes and tell it to me.”

 

His body relaxes, melting like so many candles as he gazes upon her again. There goes those feelings he’d been trying to fight for the last month, not even close to ever being victorious. “I trust you, Daenerys.”

 

“Then that is all there is to it. I don’t leave my friends behind.”

 

And for the first time ever, she wraps herself around him in a warm embrace, her arms snug around his middle and her head laying on his chest. Hesitantly, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and then softly rests his chin atop her crown.

 

The moonlight cannot compare to the starshine of her hair, he thinks as he smooths his free hand over the silky strands.

 

* * *

 

 

Robb comes to him in a hurry the next morning looking frazzled—he stops before Jon, hunching over—and clearly out of breath.

 

Jon frowns, halting his own footsteps and giving Ghost a sorry look as he whines at his feet. He was going out to take Ghost to the wolfswood so he could hunt, but Robb obviously has more pressing matters. Greywind comes up behind Robb anyway and rushes over to chase Ghost around.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, watching as Robb finally catches his breath.

 

His brother’s blue eyes are bright and feverish and Jon jolts when he grabs a hold of his arms, shaking him. “You’re going to King’s Landing!” Robb exclaims, nearly looking half mad with how wide his grin is.

 

Robb is so loud that several people stop and look at them in sudden interest. Jon groans and takes Robb by the shoulder and brings them under an awning, somewhere a little more private and away from all of the prying eyes of the castle.

 

“What are you talking about?” Jon hisses, still wanting to keep it down as much as possible.

 

Robb doesn't even seem to care, wrapping an arm around him and yelling, “My brother is going to King’s Landing!”

 

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” he says, shaking his head. “Why would I be going to the capital?”

 

At this, Robb looks around and now chooses to quiet his voice. _Thank the gods._ “Well, I overheard father and the King talking. Apparently, the King heard about you wanting to go to the Wall, which—” Robb pauses to jab Jon in his arm, making him nearly curse, “—why didn’t you tell _me?_ Anyway, the King said that your _‘impeccable potential with the sword’_ would be going to waste up there and I have to agree, you’re the best of us. Even Ser Barristan vouched for you—said you’ve impressed him whenever we train and spar. King Rhaegar wants you to squire for Ser Arthur and Ser Arthur agreed.”

 

_The King talked to father about me? And wants me to squire for Ser Arthur? Ser Barristan vouched for me and Ser Arthur agreed?_ Jon is having a hard time believing it, struggling to come up with something to say.

 

“Don’t you know what this _means_?” Robb shakes him once more. “You’re going to be on Kingsguard!” he laughs and pulls Jon into a crushing hug. “My brother’s going to be a white cloak!”

 

It has to be a joke. King’s Landing was a world away from the North and Jon doesn’t think he’s _that_ good. The men of the Kingsguard are legends. Not him.

 

Jon gives a forced laugh and pats Robb on the back, disbelief almost swallowing him whole. “I don’t know what to think,” he says into Robb’s shoulder.

 

Robb pulls back and holds him out at arm’s length. “Don’t think! This is a cause for celebration! You’re going to be like Aemon the Dragonknight! C’mon let’s go find Theon and go into the town,” he grabs Jon by the shoulder and leads him back out into the main courtyard, chatting away while Jon isn’t even able to listen completely.

 

_How many bastards have been given the chance to be on Kingsguard?_ Jon thinks in wonder. _How many, when there's the Wall?_

 

He isn’t even sure how this came to pass. Jon cannot buy the King going to his father and telling him that Jon should come to the capital of his own volition. _He’s the bloody King!_

 

And speaking of, King Rhaegar comes out of the Library Tower and when he finds Jon looking at him, he gives a single nod—the corners of his mouth upturned just slightly. Ser Arthur is behind him and he also gives Jon a nod, to which Jon just gapes in return. Then, he sees Daenerys trailing after with Ser Barristan in all her morning glory. Their eyes meet and not a second later, one of her violet eyes closes in a wink.

 

_I don’t leave my friends behind._

 

It all becomes so clear to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha, omg i wasn’t the most satisfied with this chapter, but tell me what you think! ❤️ i always love to hear from you guys.


	4. forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey omg this chapter is like 12k guys which is crazy i totally didn’t intend for that to happen, so like i’m sorry if it gets to be too much at any point during your read. if not, then enjoy 12k of jon’s pov! 💖 and of course there will be mistakes, it’s 6 am and i have no beta lol! and as always i apologize for like any canon inaccuracies, like pertaining to the world of ASOIAF. sorry!

Ever since the news broke about him going off to King’s Landing, Jon had been seeing a change in the way people treated him. More smiles, more eye contact, more courtesy, and more small gestures. For instance, the girls in the kitchens had taken up the habit of giving him some kind of sweet with every meal he took. Every time he sat down to eat in the Hall, he would find a sweet on his plate. Different each time—strawberry pie, honey fingers, lemon cakes, apple crisps, spiced honey biscuits, blackberry tarts and _many_ others. He wasn’t lost on the fact that every time he bit into one, he’d feel eyes on him and whenever he looked to find the kitchen girls watching with a shy keenness, they’d go scattering off back to the kitchens, giggling all the while.

 

He appreciated the gesture, he really did, but he wasn’t he even a _knight_ yet, for God’s sake.

 

Lady Catelyn had even looked upon him more often. It was nothing kind, but sometimes if he had the gall to look back, he’d find something resembling a sort of respect in them. _Still cold as ice, though._

 

Benjen seemed happy enough with him going south instead of north, but not entirely, which he didn’t understand. His father had become surprisingly more present. Constantly hovering and making sure to involve Jon when he went on hunts or even when he was just in his solar, reading scrolls and going through his daily tasks as Warden of the North. It wasn’t like Ned didn’t ever acknowledge Jon, but the amount of attention he’d been giving him lately was startling.

 

When he told Daenerys about it she insisted that his father just wanted to spend more time with him before he went down south. Jon wasn’t completely sold on that.

 

His siblings had all taken the news differently. Robb, of course was absolutely excited, probably more than himself. Sansa has become more warm towards him and even shared the news of her accompanying them to King’s Landing to go to court. It seemed like a grin was always on her face these days. Bran and Rickon had initially not liked the idea of Jon leaving and Rickon even cried, but when Jon told them he’d come back to visit one day, they had been settled. Arya was another story.

 

She had stomped into his room when she first got word of him leaving, and demanded that he tell her it was a lie. Jon’s heart ached as he calmly explained to her that he thought it was a good idea and that he’d loved to go. Arya called him a traitor and ran off, but he knew she wasn’t as angry as she was sad. She hasn’t talked to him since and Jon knew he had to do something about it.

 

And he had the _perfect_ idea. Not soon after Arya had left him in a mindless fury, he put on his cloak and boots, nearly running out of the door to get to the forge as quickly as possible. Mikken, the head-smith, was startled to see him rushing in so late, out of breath and smiling like a madman. Jon just about bombarded the poor smith with his request, but luckily Mikken agreed to his delight.

 

That was a week ago and he’d been pleased with himself for coming up with the idea ever since, but he chose not to tell anyone lest Arya found out. It was no secret that she was like the eyes and ears of Winterfell. But he had been brimming with excitement, and sitting with this feeling for too long was starting to make him feel a little crazed. He just _had_ to tell someone. So, naturally, Daenerys was his best bet. She’d never tell a soul and they were leaving Winterfell on the morrow, so she wouldn’t even really get the chance to, anyway.

 

“You’re getting her a what?!” Daenerys yelled out into the quiet of the woods. Silver whined beneath her as Daenerys slowed her into a trot—Jon following suit with his own stead, pulling up to ride side by side with her.

 

“I’m going to get her a sword,” Jon repeated, feeling pretty good about it. “A going away gift. Obviously it won’t be any kind of greatsword, something small—like her. Maybe it’ll help her forgive me.”

 

Daenerys looks at him like he has two heads. “Jon, you’d have to be the biggest fool to think Arya could stay mad at you for long or that she’d never forgive you.”

 

“Well, it’s been a week and she hasn’t spoken to me,” he complained, probably sounding ridiculous. “She’s never ignored me for so long. Every time I try to bloody approach her she runs away—and she’s so _fast._ ” Definitely sounding ridiculous.

 

“Aw,” she croons, a fake frown on her face, eyebrows quirking. “Your baby sister hates you now.”

 

He only groans in response, shaking his head as she laughs giddily into the air until she calms, fixing him with a look. “Jon, have you thought about what your lord father would think? Or Arya’s lady mother?”

 

He hadn’t really. His father probably wouldn’t like it much, but Jon’s sure if he found out he would come around to it. Lady Catelyn most definitely wouldn’t come around to it. That is something to be sure of.

 

“Have you thought about wearing gloves today, Your Royal Highness? Or did you just forget again?” He remarks childishly just to poke fun at her. Daenerys looks down at her bare hands gripping the reins and then just shrugs it off with some non-committal sound.

 

_Definitely has forgotten again,_ Jon muses to himself.

 

“I’ll tell Arya to keep it a secret,” he answers Daenerys’s previous questions, knowing that’s what best. “And she will, because the moment her mother finds out—it’s over—and that sword will be thrown into a river somewhere. Especially if she ever found it was a gift from me.”

 

Daenerys’s eyes narrow. “She really shouldn’t be so horrid to you. Arya adores you, all of your siblings do.” _Not Sansa,_ he wants to say. Sansa takes after her mother in every way. But Daenerys knows that, though. Some of their nights in the godswood have been filled with him just ranting about how unfair he’s felt his life has been. Lady Stark and even Sansa being a topic he’s touched on a few times while Daenerys sat on their rock and listened patiently. He doesn’t want to bring it up again even though it’s something that still bothers him. His little sister may have taken up on giving him more smiles—though small and fleeting—and glances of acknowledgement when they cross paths due to the news of him going on to becoming a knight-in-training, but years of distancing oneself from another is a habit. Jon imagines it must be a strange thing for Sansa to smile at him more.

 

_Most like just as strange as it is for me to be on the receiving end of them,_ he muses.

 

“We leave tomorrow. Mayhaps Arya should come with us.” Daenerys says with a thoughtful expression, making it sound like an offer with the way her voice lilts just at the end.

 

Jon laughs outright at that making her eyes narrow with something dark, he raises a hand in surrender, still laughing all the while. _Arya_ in the _south?_ If Jon couldn’t imagine himself down in King's Landing, he _definitely_ couldn’t imagine his wild baby sister there, either. Probably even more so.

 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, a little chuckle escaping him. “It’s just Arya loves the north, and as much as she is a little explorer, she loves her home.” Jon sighs because he loves Winterfell, too. It’s all he’s ever known and he’ll be leaving it soon. At least he had a purpose now he supposed. “Also, Sansa and Arya both being in the capital at the same time and not killing each other? _”_ he snorts and adds, “Fat chance of that.”

 

Daenerys’s face turns pensive. Jon watches the corner of her mouth tick, and maybe he lingers there for a moment before choosing to study the soft pink of her lips, but she’d be none the wiser.

 

“So…” she starts, a mischievous expression coming over her face. Jon narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Where would you be getting this sword?”

 

“The forge…” He answers, dragging it out because he’s trying to read into her and the way her face looks like the cogs of her brain are turning ever-so-slowly. “I’ve already put a word in. It should be ready by now.” Jon watches as she takes in that information, her fingers twiddling with the leather straps of the reins in her hands. “Why?”

 

She sends a sweet smile his way, deceivingly so. “Take me with you. I would like to see it.”

 

It’s Jon turn to look at her as if she’s the one with two heads. These daytime rides are one thing, but walking the grounds of Winterfell with her are another. That’s the reason why they meet in the godswood _at night_.

 

“Daenerys, you know I can’t—” Jon stops as he watches her roll her eyes back so far, the whites of them completely hide the violet. “I can’t!” he shouts in exasperation.

 

“You can if I will it,” she says, chin raised and impish smirk lining her mouth. “No one will say anything to me and if they do—” Her voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper as she leans closer, eyes dancing with light, “they will risk waking the dragon.”

 

Jon chokes. “ _Waking the dragon?”_ She laughs and hums in affirmation.

 

“Yes, and besides, we do this,” she waves an arm around, gesturing to woodsy landscape surrounding them, “almost everyday. People see us together all of the time.” Sardonically, he thinks about how they _don’t_ see them when they take to the godswood every night. The people would be so scandalized. “I don’t care if they see us going to a forge, of all places, together. Let them.”

 

He really doesn’t know how many times he will have to explain this. This isn’t the first time she’s insisted on them being seen together outside of their rides. _We are friends after all,_ she would say, but what princess is friends with a bastard?

 

Almost as if she can hear his thoughts, she says, “I don’t care if you’re a bastard, Jon. It will not matter when you are on Kingsguard and you’ll be protecting me. Why should it matter now?”

 

“It matters because I am _not_ on Kingsguard yet and yes— _still_ a bastard!” he stressed, trying to make her see the point. He’s failing miserably—her eyes shine in steely determination more and more with every refusal.

 

Daenerys folds her arms over her chest, staring him down. “I can just follow you, you know?”

 

Jon knows her well enough by now to know she’s serious. She’d just follow him and then it’d look like he’d be ignoring her. Which is absurd and just thinking about how it’ll look to everyone else makes him cringe slightly. It is for that very reason he gives in, and not because of him developing a terrible habit of not being able to say no to her.

 

“Fine,” he mutters, knowing she’ll never give it up. A part of him likes that about her. _Stubborn_ . “Follow me, _Your Grace_.” He knows calling her by her title will only annoy her and a laugh is startled out of him when she pulls up close enough to reach over and nab him deftly in the shoulder.  

 

But she takes the reins of Silver and swivels around to follow him as he turns back in the direction of the castle. Ser Barristan is waiting for them as always, under his tree with his own steed tied to the thick trunk, and gives them both a look as they come up on him. Daenerys looking like the cat who got the cream and Jon trying his best to look as put out as he can, wanting to make her feel somewhat guilty. She doesn’t.

 

“All is well, Princess?” Ser Barristan asks, looking her over with a critical eye.

 

Daenerys smiles brightly, looking over at Jon, and then back to her knight. “Very well,” her voice lilts just so with her grin, and Jon has to stop himself from snorting at how smug she sounds. “Jon will be taking us to the forge.” A crinkle dances on Ser Barristan’s white brow and when the old knight looks to Jon for an answer, he can only just sigh and shake his head in exasperation. Ser Barristan gets the message soon enough.

 

“I don’t know if that is the best idea, Princess—”

 

She raises a single hand, effectively making her knight quiet. “We _are going_ to the forge,” her voice becoming shorter, every inch of her petite form regal. She nods over to Ser Barristan’s horse and fixes the man with an arched brow. “Now, come on. We don’t want to take up _all_ of Jon’s time.”

 

Jon sees no real problem with that. Selfishly, he’d like her to take up all of his time and for him to take up hers. _We could go on our rides forever,_ he thinks and he knows it’s a bit childish, but something about just being simply being in her presence makes him feel better. Maybe it’s pathetic, but he’s seen the way having the princess around has made everyone a bit warmer. She’s constant smiles and quick wit. Every bit of charming and gracious. Jon’s watched silently as so many people around here have fallen into her and her light aura. The way their body language becomes less tense and slips into a more relaxed state. It was easy to feel comfortable around Daenerys. Although, as much as he was at ease with her around, he was also constantly hyper-aware of everything. The way he acted, the way she acted. His nerves were continually singing.

 

And Jon thinks he might be going a bit mad. For now, he’ll chalk it up to her being Targaryen royalty—something that he’d only read about and heard stories of. That in of itself is something of a spectacle. Although, something inside himself knows it’s more than that, but also just as simple. _It’s just her_ , he knows it.

 

Seven hells, if Robb could hear him now…

 

The warmth of the flush building at his neck makes him shift in his seat uncomfortably and when he finds Daenerys studying him with an unreadable gaze, he shifts even more at the flush now burning his ears and his cheeks. Ser Barristan mounts and brings himself over to them. Jon doesn’t wait for anyone to say anything, or to even see if they’re ready to go and just urges his horse forward, wanting to get from under the heavy weight of those perceptive violet eyes.

 

Jon takes them through the Hunter’s gate, so they don’t attract too much attention, but a stable boy manages to see them and comes over to take care of the horses. He makes the move to help, but the stable boy insists on doing it himself and takes the reins of Jon’s horse from him, and then oddly enough—gives Jon a deep bow, uttering a shaky _‘Ser’_ before scurrying off. Daenerys dismounts, giving Silver a loving pat before another hand takes the mare, and comes over to Jon’s side. Her mouth is tugging at the corners, trying to stamp down the laughter and Jon just knows she’s seen the whole exchange. He just huffs and starts to trudge off in the direction of the forge, knowing she’s right there with him.

 

“Everyone’s been treating me different,” he grunts, shaking his head, hands awkwardly flexing at his sides. “I wish they’d stop already.” And just as that sentence is through his teeth, a serving girl passing by gasps at the sight of them, and bows twice. Once at Daenerys, of course, but then another time for him, and he just wants to go in his room and stay there for a very long time.

 

Daenerys chuckles at his sour face. “They are just paying their respects to a future white cloak,” she says with a shrug. “There is no problem with that.”

 

“It’s not like I’m _bloody royalty_ ! Next thing I know, someone is gonna fall to their knees and try to kiss my boot.” He hisses, hackles rising when she does nothing but laugh, and Jon is sure he hears Ser Barristan give a brief chuckle. It irks him because Jon wouldn’t be feeling like this if weren’t for Daenerys. “And this,” he halts to point a finger at her, “is _your_ fault. What did you even say to the King?”

 

“Nothing.” When he fixes her with a look, she raises her hands in mock surrender, eyes going wide. “Nothing that wasn’t the truth, alright?”

 

Jon scowls and continues the march to the forge. “And what was _the truth_?”

 

“That you’re good with a sword.” she said as if it was the most simple thing ever. As if it was a largely known fact. A largely known fact is the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. Not his swordsmanship. “And we could use some new members on the Kingsguard. Honestly, you should’ve seen my brother’s face when I mentioned you going to the Wall. He looked mortified.”

 

He bristled at that. _Why should it matter to the King?_

 

“And that’s it? Me being good with a sword?” Jon asks, not believing it.

 

How many men would love to be on Kingsguard? To have the honor of serving the crown and being a protector of the realm. Hundreds? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? It just didn’t seem right for him to be squiring for the Sword of the Morning and training to be amongst the white cloaks. Jon didn’t think he was any more special than any other man who had those same dreams. He may be good with a sword, he wouldn’t deprive himself of that for that is something he worked hard on for years, but this was still hard for him to wrap his head around.

 

Daenerys comes up on his side, having to lengthen her strides, and gives him a reassuring smile. “That’s it.”

 

“We’re here,” Jon informs, as they come up on the forge, feeling uncomfortable with Daenerys’ unwavering confidence in him. _But that’s what friends do, right? Support each other?_

 

“After you, Jon Snow.”

 

He walks into the forge and is immediately hit with the ever-present smoke and clang and clatter of metal on metal. The hissing of white iron going into water and being tempered. If Jon had the patience, he might’ve went into smithing, but he knows it takes a lot of time and dedication to the craft of metal-working. As he watches men sweat and slave over the heat of the forge, he decides this is a trade he’d be fine with not learning.

 

“Mikken!” he calls out in greeting as he approaches Winterfell’s prized blacksmith.

 

Mikken isn’t a small man. He stands well over 6 feet with thick arms and even thicker shoulders earned by his years working the forge, but when he looks up from his work to greet Jon in their familiar fashion, the burly man stumbles back with a curse, heavy grey brows shooting upwards in surprise at the sight of Daenerys standing beside Jon—Ser Barristan assessing the place with a keen eye behind them. The blacksmith’s sure and calloused hands drop the white hot iron poker that was in its grasp, but before it can hit the ground—a pair of smaller, pale hands reach out reflexively, grabbing it up in time.

 

Jon’s brain shortens for half a second, looking at Daenerys’ hands, taking in the hiss of steaming metal meeting flesh, before he snatches the poker from her—yelling out a curse when the leather of his glove burn against his right hand from holding it a little too long. Foolishly, he had taken the fire hot part of the poker into his hand instead of the much cooler handle.

 

“Here, boy,” Mikken grunts, snatching it away from him and handling it much more professionally.

 

It hurts, it _really_ hurts, but he tries not to think of the fire licking at his palm as he takes Daenerys’ hands into his own, frantically checking for the burns that are sure to be there, not even paying attention to how unaffected she is.

 

“Are you alright? Does it hur—”

 

But to his surprise, there is nothing. No red, angry marks. No burns. Nothing.

 

_How odd,_ Jon thinks as he turns her smooth ivory hands over in his. _They are just as they were_. When he looks up at Daenerys with a furrowed brow, she looks a bit put off by it as well, even looking at her hands with something along the lines of faint wonder.

 

Daenerys shakes her head, taking her hands away, recovers quickly with a quip, “Must be the dragonblood _.”_ And then she laughs it off, like it wasn’t a strange occurrence.

 

“Jon,” Ser Barristan speaks up, nodding towards his own hand and the burned-through leather of his glove, the skin under it red, angry, and peeling. “You should get that looked at.”

 

It’s like those words themselves bring forward the onslaught of fiery pain that shoots through his right hand and even up his forearm. The harsh sting almost makes him feel dizzy, his feet stumbling for a moment. Daenerys is quick to move into his space, arms snaking around him to support his middle.

 

“Jon?” He sees the way her soft brows are bunching in concern— _right in the middle as always_ —although her face swims before him for a split second. He’s quick to blink it away. Now, he can clearly see how worried she looks, the way she gnaws at her bottom lip while scanning his face. Gods, he _definitely_ held that poker for too long. “Mikken?”

 

“U-uh, yes, Your Grace?”

 

Jon doesn’t think he’s ever heard the man’s voice waver as it does right then. He chuckles, but the movement makes his hand shift against Daenerys, and he stops to groan in pain.

 

“Ser Barristan here is going to deliver the sword you made for Jon to my chambers. I will be escorting Jon to Maester Luwin.”

 

“Your Gra—”

 

Daenerys cuts off the old knight with a seething look. “Now.” she commands. “Missandei will let you in.”

 

They two of them stare at each other for a moment. To Jon, it looks like they are battling with their eyes. Ser Barristan’s disapproving, not liking her decision. Daenerys just looks at him, not faltering at all, until her old knight gives up with a sigh and a bow, moving past them to talk with Mikken. With a glare like that, Jon is sure that Daenerys can make even the hardiest of men bend under her will. It must be the way of royalty.

 

“Come on,” she beckons him forward with her, a soft tug with the arms around his middle. Jon obeys, letting her move to curl into his left side, both of her arms still around him. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to wrap an arm of his own around her shoulders.

 

They leave but not before Daenerys thanks Mikken for his service. The smith wishes her well and tells Jon to get fixed up, not trying to sound as concerned as he definitely does. Jon thinks he’ll miss him.

 

Many people stare and whisper, gawk and even some point as Daenerys leads him across the castle grounds, supporting his weight a little. If the sharp, burning pain wasn’t at the forefront of his mind, he would definitely be feeling more self-conscious about it—might even insist on going to Maester Luwin alone. And if he were able to feel some sort of self-awareness, he might’ve noticed the cold-blue Tully eyes of Lady Catelyn following them.

 

But he cannot care less, and Daenerys sure wouldn’t let him go by himself. Her steady warmth at his side makes something unfurl in his chest and he lets himself get wrapped up in the feeling. If it came to haunt him later, he’d just blame it on the mind-numbing pain.

 

Just as he’s wondering what flowery scent is masking Daenerys’ moonluster locks, they come up on the rookery. _Jasmine? Lavender?_ He’s been around Sansa enough to be sure it is one of the two.

 

“Ah, Princess, what a pleasure to see you again.” Maester Luwin greets, definitely sounding pleased. “And, what have you brought me?”

 

Sounding a bit worried, she tells the maester, “Jon has burnt his hand pretty badly. He also seems a bit… out of it, so it must be very painful.”

 

Maester Luwin makes a sound of pity, waving a wrinkled hand over to a stool just in the corner of the room. “Sit him there.”

 

“It’s not even that bad,” Jon tries to assure them, while struggling with Daenerys a bit as she walks him over to the stool, suddenly not wanting any treatment. “Really, I’m fin—” He grunts in surprise when she all but shoves him down to sit. Jon shoots her a look of offense—a bit slow with his movements, not wanting to jostle his hand, because it really _does_ hurt, but she gets the message all the same and mutters a lack-luster apology. “Has anyone ever told you you’re stronger than you look?”

 

“Many. Now sit still.”

 

Childishly, he grumbles under his breath, but follows her instructions all the same, leaning his back against the stone wall as he watches Maester Luwin go back and forth in search for whatever materials he was looking for. Soon enough, the pendulum-like movements lull him into a light slumber. He barely feels it when Maester Luwin pulls the burned glove from his hand, just a small twinge of something. And he barely feels it when the cooling salve is applied, or the linen wraps, and he doesn’t even register the slightest trickle of some liquid going down his throat.

 

Soon after that, the world fades to black.

 

* * *

 

 

There is something poking at him. Burrowing into his side and prodding at him. He’s had such a good dream—something along the lines of him being dressed up in resplendent, shimmering armor and riding atop of great warhorse, black as night to match his hair, into the heat of some battle, watching as men cower in fear at the sight of him and his mighty steed, how his comrades yell beside him in excitement as they charge with him into the fray, how he saves the day—that he wants to tell whatever it is bothering him to bugger off.

 

But it keeps poking and prodding, and then there is something wet and slimy jabbing at his face. So naturally, he has no choice but to wake up.

 

“I told you not to do that.” A chiding voice comes from above, the wet sensation stops at the sound of it, then there’s a whine following it. “Oh, alright, but it’s your fault if he wakes.” The voice concedes.

 

And to his dismay, it picks up again, and then hurried puffs of breath scatter across his face, making his nose wrinkle. _It smells bloody awful._ With an annoyed groan, Jon stirs, eyes fluttering open and closed for a few moments, until little by little the world around him comes back into focus.

 

The first thing he’s met with is squinty red eyes and a lopsided smile. He feels increasingly less annoyed now.

 

“Ghost,” he coos, reaching up to run a hand through his wolf’s white fur.

 

“Not that hand!”

 

Jon’s right hand freezes mid-air, just about half-way to Ghost, and he looks around his wolf to see that his right hand— _his sword hand_ —is all bandaged up. It feels quite numb, too. He is not quite sure what happened, but he hopes it isn’t too detrimental. He needs this hand.

 

Sluggishly, he lets that hand drop and then lifts up his left to give Ghost a good rub. The wolf makes a low keening noise as he settles onto Jon’s abdomen, eyes shutting happily. Affection blooms inside Jon’s chest as  he does the same, intending to get more sleep. Maybe go back into that dream again.

 

“He is a good boy.” Jon cracks an eye open and just as he looks over to his left, a hand joins his trailing through Ghost’s soft fur. He nearly startles to find Daenerys there, sitting at his bedside, fawning over Ghost. “A very good boy,” she repeats lowly, making the wolf whine in contentment.

 

Jon is confused. “Why are you in my room?”

 

Daenerys arches her brow and casts him a look, making him realize how rude he just sounded. “Well, that’s one way to talk to the person who aided you in your injury.” She drawls, looking over to his bandaged hand.

 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, too groggy to feel sheepish, which was something to be thankful for. “Just tired,” he lifts his injured hand, “and confused.”

 

“Milk of the poppy,” she explains. “Not too much, but enough so you wouldn’t feel the pain. Do you remember anything?”

 

Jon tries to think, but all he could remember was his dream. Or at least, bits of it. How he came to hurt himself was a mystery, though. When he shakes his head, she smiles sweetly and reaches over to run a hand through his curls. Without even thinking, his eyes flutter shut and he makes a noise much like Ghost had when they were giving him rubs. If he were a bit more sober, he’d definitely be embarrassed.

 

Daenerys giggles quietly, her fingertips brushing his scalp. “You and your wolf are a lot alike. While you were sleeping he was begging me for belly rubs.”

 

“I’m sure you give good belly rubs. Can’t fault him for that.”

 

His speech sounds slurred even to his own ears, but he feels so good that it doesn’t even matter.

 

“And what about this?” she asks with a hum, grinning above him, nimble fingers now moving to full on massage his scalp.

 

Jon grins back even wider, eyes closing. “This is good.”

 

“I’m glad,” she laughs softly.

 

They stay like that for a time. Hearth crackling and spitting. Ghost lightly snoozing on top of Jon. Daenerys nearly lulling him to sleep with her scalp massaging. Her quiet humming of some song he’s never heard before. Jon doesn’t know if he’s felt this relaxed before. He never wants it to end, and as sleepy as he is, falling asleep would be a waste when he has her right here. So, he forces himself to ask her what happened, and she gives him the details, big and small. He’s glad to hear that she’s put Arya’s sword in the trunk at the foot of his bed. Daenerys retelling the dramatic story had helped him remember a little, especially the bit about her hands and how they were unharmed. Not even a single mark.

 

“How’d that happen?” he slurs a bit more, but she doesn’t pay any mind to it, seemingly lost in her own mind.

 

“I-I don’t know…” she whispers, staring unblinkingly before her, fingers still carding through his hair. Jon watches her face closely, how wide her pretty violets are. “I’ve always liked the heat. The beating of the sun on my skin, the warning warmth of sitting a little too close to the hearth—I even take my baths with water so hot, no one else can stand it.” Jon tries not to let his mind wander, to not imagine how pink her skin would be after one of those hot baths, how soft…  he _really_ tries. _This is my friend,_ he has to remind himself. He should feel ashamed, but he cannot at the moment.

 

Jon blames it solely on the milk of the poppy.

 

“I’ve read once that some of my ancestors were more tolerant towards heat and even flame,” she pipes up. “Maybe that’s why, maybe that’s why Aerion Brightflame thought he could swallow wildfire and turn into a dragon.”

 

Jon snickers, something from earlier coming back to him. “Well, what did you say— _must be the dragonblood?”_

 

Daenerys snorts and gives him a light shove, not wanting to bother Ghost. “So you remember that, huh?”

 

“And earlier, you said something about _waking a dragon_ , I think. Pretty dramatic,” he gives a dry laugh at her dirty look. “Who ever came up with that silly phrase?” Her face falls completely, crumpling in a way he’s never seen before, the hand in his hair seizing up. He suddenly becomes much more awake, heart rate picking up quickly. “Are you alright?” he asks, afraid he said something wrong.

 

Blinking rapidly a few times, she gulps and shakes her head, eyebrows heavily knitted together. “I’m—I’m fine.”

 

“Was it something I said?”

 

She clicks her tongue, clenching her eyes shut for a moment. Jon waits patiently, watching her with worry. Daenerys sucks in a breath, holding, and then releasing it. When she opens her eyes, it’s to give him a sad smile—if he could even call it that, the corners of her mouth barely turn upward.

 

“My brother. Viserys… he used to say that.”

 

The princess was the youngest of three. The last addition to her family, with her brothers—King Rhaegar and Prince Viserys—born ahead of her. Jon knew that.

 

He also knew that Prince Viserys was recently deceased, the anniversary of his death only a little more than a year ago. Jon wanted to kick himself.

 

He reaches out with his other hand to grab hers. “Daenerys, I am so sorry.”

 

“What is there to be sorry about?” she laughs, a bit empty. “You haven’t done anything, Jon. It’s just something he would say when we would play that hide-and-seek game as children.” Jon sees the way her eyes cloud over with sorrowful nostalgia. “It used to frighten me so, for some reason, like as if I thought there was an actual living, breathing dragon inside him,” she laughs again, though this time it’s more choked. “That if he caught me, it would come out and melt me into ashes.”

 

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s never lost a brother or a sister. He couldn’t imagine any of his siblings suddenly being gone like that.

 

Daenerys snatches her hand away from his grasp and bolts upright, her fingernails scratching his palm, nearly knocking her chair back. She looks down but Jon is able to catch the glassiness of her eyes in the firelight. “It’s nearly time for supper and I should be heading back. I know Ser Barristan is wondering where I am. Missandei and Merla, too.” She turns away from him and goes over to his small window, pushing it open. Jon is surprised to see it’s nearly pitch black out. The whole day was spent with him sleeping it away. “Yes, I should go,” she tells herself more so than him.

 

He watches in silence as she gathers her cloak and toes back into her boots. The whole time she spares not a single glance at him, choosing to duck away. She walks quickly over to the door, and Jon is disappointed to see her reach for the handle.

 

“Daenerys—”

 

She turns towards his voice a little, not quite looking over her shoulder. “I’ll have someone bring your supper to you and I’ll see you tomorrow. We have a big day ahead of us.” He nearly groans as he thinks about how they intend to depart for the kingsroad at dawn. His last night home and he was feeling riddled with milk of the poppy. “Rest well, Jon.”

 

A gasp falls from her lips and his chest clenches with anxiety when she opens the door and finds Robb is there on the other side with a steaming tray of food. Jon watches as Daenerys looks at his brother in shock and as Robb looks at her in startling confusion. The suspense hanging in the air is so thick that Jon swallows, the feeling dry and uncomfortable.

 

“Princess?”

 

Daenerys blinks thrice before she moves to fiddle with her hands, looking down sheepishly. “Hello, Robb.”

 

Robb stares at her for one long moment, although she refuses to meet his eyes and then shoots Jon a withering look. “Would you like me to escort you back to your chambers, Princess?” She shakes her head rapidly. “Well then, would you please excuse my brother and I?” He asks with courtesy, voice kind and gentle, although his eyes—currently still cutting into Jon—are anything but. _He looks livid_ , Jon observes with a tinge of apprehension. _Rarely does he ever look at me this way._

 

“Y-yes, of course,” she stutters, shifting on her feet. “Goodnight.” It is then that Daenerys finally looks his way, the panicked fear apparent in them. Jon would like to find a way to comfort her, but she is there and he is here—in his bed. She looks away with a bite of her lip and slides quietly past Robb through the doorway with a lowered head.

 

Neither of them move a muscle until the sounds of her retreating footsteps are gone. Robb steps into the room silently, using his boot to close the door and when it groans shut, Jon is even more on edge that Robb just chooses to stand there. Not saying a word.

 

Jon pushes himself to sit up and lean his upper body against the wooden headboard, Ghost’s slumbering form moving to his lap. He weighs it in his mind how to approach this, what to say, how to say it.

 

Really, he’s looking for an excuse, so he starts off by saying, “It isn’t what you think,” Robb doesn’t even look his way as he walks across the room and over to the table sitting just by the hearth. “I don’t know what you think, but it isn’t—” He’s cut off by Robb slamming the tray down onto the table, silverware and glass clattering together loudly. Ghost perks up, swiveling his head around and whining when he sees Robb. Jon lightly shoves him off and the wolf pads over to the fire and makes his sleeping place there instead, not caring much about what is happening.

 

He stares at Robb’s back, hunched over the table, his hands gripping the sides. Another long beat of silence stretches between them, and Jon thinks it’d be better to let his brother speak first, so he waits.  

 

And waits, and waits until finally Robb lets out a deep breath as he straightens his posture, and slowly turns to face him. “Why was she here?”

 

“I don’t know…” He says, taking in the way Robb clenches his jaw. “I woke and she just—she was there.” It sounds lame even to him, but truly what else could he say?

 

Robb doesn’t look the least bit satisfied with his answer. “I came here to spend your last night home together because I knew you were holed up in here and probably alone and miserable but,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “you had the princess in your bedchambers.”

 

Jon narrows his eyes at him, not liking the way it sounds like an implication. “She came here on her own.” he says, defensively. “I was under because Master Luwin gave me milk of the poppy. How was I supposed to know that she was here, Robb?”

 

“Do you know that my mother came to father just a while ago and yelled at him because she said that you were getting too familiar with the princess? She was upset that Her Grace came to your aid and out so openly in front of the whole castle. Now, there are rumours going around about the two of you—you going to King’s Landing being her doing. That there is something going on between you two.” Robb tells him with a furrowed brow. “I didn’t really think much of it because I know that the princess is kind and that she’d help anybody. Father wanted to come here and talk with you, but I stepped in. Imagine if it were father who was at the door instead of me, Jon. Do you understand the consequences that could’ve been had?”

 

Jon can’t help but feel at a loss. Why should he punished for needing help? And why should Daenerys for being the good person that she is and helping him? But of course, if it were up to Lady Stark no one would’ve helped him at all. For so long he felt guilty for even existing because he knew it caused her shame. There were even moments that he entertained the idea of her being his mother, looking upon him with the same heart wrenching warmth she does with his siblings, but now he feels nothing but pure loathing for Lady Stark, and mounting irritation at Robb trying to corner him, even if he did have a point.

 

“I don’t care about any bloody rumours, Robb.” He grunts, heatedly staring back at his brother. “Rumours are just that—rumours. The princess doesn’t have anything to do with me going to the capital. You’re the one that told me it was the King.” He intentionally avoids the point Robb made, because deep down this is what he feared. That people would think him and Daenerys were too close. That they shouldn’t be friends, let alone whatever they were _truly_ thinking of them. Jon could deal with the fallout, but Daenerys has a name to maintain, and the thought of him being the one causing her to be shamed is something that doesn’t sit well with him. It fills with as much remorse as it does with anxiety. The pressing need to shield her from any childish or snide remarks.

 

Robb nods, lips tucked in, hands on his hips. “That’s true, brother,” he admits, looking around the room for a moment before turning to Jon. “And I _would_ believe you, I really would but—”

 

“Then believe me! There is nothing going on between me and Daenerys!” Jon exclaims, wanting Robb to be on his side. It is very rare that he isn’t.

 

“But you are friends at the very least?”

 

Instinctively, he opens his mouth to deny it, as he had been doing to himself for the past month. But the words do not come. _Yes,_ Jon admits internally. _She is my friend. My first true friend outside of Robb and even, Theon._

 

Robb sighs. “So it is true then?” Jon looks up in confusion. “Is it true about you and the princess going to the godswood every night?”

 

Jon instantly knows that Theon told him and if it weren’t for his condition, he would go to him now, but alas—Theon Greyjoy lives to see another day. “Yes,” he admits, not being able to lie anymore. Fondly, he adds, “She likes it there. I do too…” A soft smile edging his mouth as he says it.

 

Robb studies him closely for a moment, calculating before choosing to stalk over and stand at his bedside. When Robb waves a hand, telling him to scoot over, Jon makes room for his brother to sit by him, smile growing. They settle down comfortably, both of them leaning against the headboard now, watching the dark orange flames of the hearth dance silently before them. This is something they used to do as boys. Jon used to have the most terrible nightmares, and every time one came on Robb was right there at his doorway, and then clambering into bed with him, shaggy auburn hair framing his prepubescent cheeks. Jon was always glad to see him, clutching at his brother for dear life as the waves of terror started to fade away. He never did find out how Robb always knew when the dark things in his sleep would start to haunt him, but he did. Always.

 

He’s sad that they’ll never have this again. Both men grown and with pressing duties looming ahead in their futures. _Where did the time go?_ Jon wonders.

 

“I don’t mean to interrogate you or get angry,” Robb sighs, “but you _have_ to be more careful. She is the princess of the Seven Kingdoms, Jon, and—”

 

“And I am the bastard of Winterfell,” Jon says cynically, cutting an eye to see Robb looking at him with a grim expression. “I know, Robb.”

 

That is the difference between them. Robb will go on to become Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, one day. He will have his sons, his wife, his holds, his lands, his titles. Jon will go on to be a man-in-arm’s, a white knight who swears off sons, marriage, lands and holds, his title will be _Ser_ and Robb’s will be _Lord_. No matter how much Jon loves his brother, he will always wonder, always feel a bit envious. But Jon is alright with living a soldier’s life. As long as there’s honor in it.

 

Robb smiles sadly. “You are my brother all the same. Nothing will ever change that.”

 

Jon knows that. He thinks of Daenerys and how she told him with so much conviction that he was a Stark, so much so that he began to believe it a bit more. Even if there was a part of himself that was something foreign and unknown. The other part that his father didn’t make up, the other part that wasn’t Stark. The part that used to be the very thing that haunted his dreams as a young boy, and even still haunts them from time to time now, as a young man.

 

* * *

 

Jon wakes once more, a little or so before dawn. Robb had left to go sleep in his own bed a few hours ago once he started yawning after they had talked for most of the night, but sleep did not come so easily for him. He’s sure that he probably got a little more than an hour, but luckily there isn’t much drowsiness fogging his brain this morning. Instead there are rattling nerves shaking him at the prospect of this day, shaping the rest of his days.

 

Liking to get an early start on things, he starts his morning routine of bathing and getting dressed, but he’s careful while doing so, not wanting to bother his hand that was now starting to sting, effects of whatever Maester Luwin used to numb it gone. He decides not to dress too heavily and whatever garments he had left were thrown into his trunk. Sure enough, as Daenerys had said, Arya’s sword was sitting neatly amongst his things in its slim leather sheath. The sight of it comes with a sharp reminder that this is a going away gift, and this will be the last time he sees his beloved baby sister for a while.

 

It’s just as he was finishing rewrapping his hand with new linens that were provided for him, that a knock comes at his door. He thinks—more like hopes—that it could be Daenerys, or even Arya as this would be the perfect time to see her, but to his surprise it’s his father with one side of his mouth raised in a slight smile.

 

“Father, good morning,” Jon greets with a smile of his own. “Would you like to come in?” Ned shakes his head when Jon moves to make room for him to enter.

 

“Come with me,” Ned beckons, stepping back further into the corridor. “I want to talk, son.”

 

Uncertainty washes over him. This most likely won’t be good, but Jon doesn’t really have a choice so he follows along, making room for Ghost to slip past his legs and through the door. Jon shuts the door and turns to see Ghost pawing at his father’s leg and looking up at with a lopsided smile. Ned smiles in return, having warmed up a considerable amount to the wolves, choosing to rub Ghost right between his perked up ears.

 

“He’s growing fast—they all are.” Ned comments, looking Ghost over with something akin to fondness.

 

“Aye, he is.” Jon agrees, because it was true. Over the past month, the direwolves went from being small enough to cradle to now matching up with some of the larger hounds in the kennels. Even then, they are bigger than most, outweighing them, and it seems they’ll only continue to grow just as fast.

 

Ned sighs, looking at Jon with a more serious expression that makes him feel uneasy. “Alright, let's talk.”

 

Jon solemnly nods, trailing after Ned when he starts to make his way down the corridor. Ghost already seems to know where his father is taking, brushing by their legs to take up to the front and lead them outside into the brisk air of the early morning. Not for the first time Jon admires how intelligent he is.

 

When he sees the iron gate of the godswood come into view, his chest tightens with the thought of Daenerys passing through his mind. He thinks back to how upset she’d gotten talking about her late brother and wonders— _hopes_ —that if she is awake that she feels better. He was sure he nearly saw her cry last night. That was something he’d not like to see again.

 

Ghost bounds ahead into the godswood when Ned opens the gate for them, disappearing quickly enough. Next time Jon sees him, he’ll probably have a dead rabbit in his jaws.

 

He sits next to Ned on the rock— _their rock (his and Daenerys’s)_ —before the black pool of the pond, settling down uncomfortably. They say nothing for a time, Ned just watching the calm of the water and Jon staring out into the dark sky, looking for the sun to come.

 

“Home will not be the same without you.” Ned finally says dolefully, breaking their shared silence.

 

That startles Jon out of his trance. He casts a trepidatious look over to his father, only to find Ned looking at him already, sad smile lining his hard features. “Of course it will,” Jon assures him, albeit a bit shakily. “You’ll have Robb and Arya here. Bran and Rickon, too.”

 

“But not Sansa. Not you.”

 

Jon comes up short, not sure what to say to that. It is so very rarely his father talks like this. Especially to him.

 

Ned sighs. “You are my son, Jon. I may not have been the best father—” Jon opens his mouth to refute that claim but Ned holds up a hand, making the words die down. “I may not have been the best father,” he repeats, grey eyes boring into his own with regret, “and there is no excuse for that. For the things you had to endure. For the things you will _still_ endure, but I had to keep you safe.” Jon wants to ask _safe from what?_ What dangers does he face as bastard of Winterfell? Lady Stark’s cold difference, as alienating as it may be, is hardly any danger. There is no danger where he is concerned, but he doesn’t want to interrupt his father so he keeps it to himself. “I would do anything for you. You know that, don’t you?”

 

It is shocking to hear the way Ned’s tone shifts into something a little more desperate, the hand now on his shoulder is gripping just a little tighter. He doesn’t know why his father is asking him this, but whatever validation it seems he is looking for Jon is more than willing to give it.

 

“I know.”

 

His father seems to relax a bit more with that affirmation, shoulder not as tense as they were a moment ago. “You are a Stark, son—of Winterfell. No matter what you may face down in King’s Landing. Always remember that. You may not have my name, but you have my blood.”

 

Having his father validate him this way is almost overwhelming. He doesn't know how to feel right now. Probably elated? Happy? Glad?

 

So why does he feel so… discontent?

 

“Are you alright?” Ned asks when Jon turns away to look down at his feet.

 

It comes to him then. _You are a Stark._

 

“What was she like?”

 

Ned hesitates, unsure of what he’s asking. “Who?”

 

“My mother,” he says simply, turning back to face Ned and look him square in the eye. It takes everything in him not to back down. He needs to know. Something. _Anything_ about her. The last time Jon asked about was when he was a very small boy. Just five years old and all his father told him that she loved him and to never forget it. This will most likely be the last time he’ll be able to talk this intimately with his father—at least for a while, anyway. So he presses on, steeling himself. “What was she like?” he asks again, more firmly.

 

Ned falters. He stares at Jon openly, mouth parting, eyes widened ever so slightly—and from this close Jon can see how they look a bit unfocused. Jon recognizes this as shock.

 

“Your mother…” Ned quietly mumbles. “She was…”

 

Jon wants to know. He doesn’t care if she was a lowborn girl, or maybe even a whore. She is his mother and he wants to know.

 

“She was what?” He urges, desperation starting to claw at him. “Please, tell me.”

 

Ned swallows thickly. It is cold in Winterfell but tiny beads of sweat are forming still along his father’s hairline. The sight of them brings a strange chill, the hairs at the back of his neck stand.

 

“She was… a lot like you in some ways.” Ned tells him, but he does not look Jon in the eye when he says it, instead he chooses to study the pond again. He can hear the pain in Ned’s voice. It trembles with emotion. “You have her heart. You do.”

 

The very thought of him being anything like her, fills him with such grief. He loves his father, looks up to him and always will, but there is nothing he wants more than to know his mother. There are so many things he wants to ask all at once. _What was her name? What did she look like? Do I look like her in any way?_ (Most likely not, he has the Stark look. He knows that.) _Did you love her? Did she love you? Where is she from?_

 

But he settles for two. Probably the most important questions he could ask about her. “Is she alive? Does she know where I’m going?” _If she is alive, I’ll find her,_ he vows. _I’ll search the whole realm if I have to._

 

Ned looks extremely troubled, like he’s fighting with himself about something. Jon waits with bated breath, heart thundering so loudly in his chest that it’s just about all he hears. _Please…_

 

“How about you promise me something and I’ll promise you something else in return?”

 

He doesn’t even hesitate to agree. He’ll do anything. Anything for the truth.

 

Ned sighs, shuts his eyes for a moment, before finally turning back to face Jon. “Promise that no matter what you’ll remain true. To your honor. To your duty. To your morals. Promise me.

 

Jon is confused, but he nods hesitantly. “I promise.”

 

“Then I promise that the next time we see each other—when you are on Kingsguard,” he pauses to wet his lips and swallow roughly, “that I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything, son. I promise.”

 

For a moment, he contemplates outright refusing. To yell and demand answers. He feels strongly that he has a right to know. That he shouldn’t have to wait until he becomes a member of the Kingsguard, because who knows how long that’ll be from now? But looking upon his father’s face, he can see that the man is pleading. That for some reason he needs this. It gives him pause.

 

“Promise me, Jon.”

 

So, he does. Ned seems to relax a little more, but he’s still tense, looking at Jon strangely. Before he can ask, Ned cuts in with a request, though it sounds more like a demand. “Keep your distance from the princess for me, hm?”

 

Once again, that rebellious feeling of refusing is more than appealing to him. So rarely does he say no to anyone, let alone his father but Jon wants to say no. He wants to say that he is allowed to be friends with Daenerys. He wants to—but he doesn’t. Instead, he gives a solemn nod and wonders how any of this is fair.

 

Ned tells him that he wants to stay in the godswood for a while, most likely to pray in front of the weirwood as he frequently does and he usually does that alone in silence so Jon leaves. Ghost is hot on his heels right as he gets to the gate, and just as Jon suspected there is blood on the wolf’s muzzle—a fresh kill. It is still fairly dark, but the sky is starting to lighten up a little so Jon makes his way back to his chambers, needing to pack a little more. The castle is slowly starting to wake, servants and house members trickle out of their rooms, getting ready for another day at Winterfell, and to help the royal party with their departure. Some look at him and some don’t, but the ones who do stare a little longer than usual, becoming suddenly still in his presence. The gossip must be really good then, he muses.

 

With an annoyed huff, he rounds the corner leading to his chambers a little too fast and therefore almost knocks over the poor person who he had collided into. He starts to apologize profusely, but he’s surprised to see it’s Arya—Nymeria trailing right after her—especially _this_ early. It’s also perfect timing.

 

“Good morning, Arya.”

 

She looks up at him in surprise, and then it shifts to anger, but Jon can tell it is really just for show at this point. “Good morning, traitor.”

 

Jon would laugh but that wouldn’t help his case at all, knowing how fast her true temper flares up. “What are you doing up so early?”

 

“Nothing,” she blurts. Jon narrows his eyes, and Arya just chooses to avert her gaze, suddenly taking interest in the wall.

 

He looks at his door a few feet behind her and smirks. “Came to see me, did you?” he teases.

 

“What? No!” she denies, hands flailing in the air. “I didn’t!” Jon just raises a single brow, not at all believing her. “Fine,” she groans.

 

Jon moves by her and goes to his door, placing a hand on the knob. He looks back at her with a soft smile. “Well, you’re lucky you came because I have something for you.”

 

Arya perks up at that, definitely more interested now. She gives him a skeptical look. “What is it?”

 

“Come and find out.”

 

And she’s hot on his heels after that, slipping through the door and making her way to plop on his bed. Nymeria and Ghost paw and circle each other in front of the dead hearth.

 

Arya eyes him closely as he closes his door shut, even choosing to bolt it. It wouldn’t do for someone to happen upon them when he gives her the gift. Jon purposely moves slowly around the room, taking his time gathering the least few miscellaneous items—an extra pair of gloves, a random tunic, some dusty old book he probably isn’t going to read. All the while he can feel Arya watching his every move, seeing our do the corner of his eye how she’s nearly falling off the edge of the bed in anticipation. The suspense killing her until she's finally not able to take it anymore.

 

“Out with it already!” she yells exasperatedly, the wolves pause to look at her with tilted heads before they go back to their game of chasing each other’s tail.

 

Jon bites back a laugh at how red her face has become and how her eyes are blown wide with eagerness. Deciding to be merciful, he walks over to the trunk, putting a hand on it. “Are you ready?” She nods excitedly, crawling to the foot of the bed and peering down at the trunk. “Alright, then.”

 

He opens the trunk, tsking at her when she tries to get even closer making her sheepishly pull back to sit on her haunches. Jon decides to not make her wait any longer and reaches in to pull out the sword. Pride swells when he sees the way her face instantly lights up, but he pulls back when she dives for it.

 

“Arya,” he admonishes. “This is no toy. Remember that.”

 

Her head nods all too fast, just eager to get it in her hands already. Jon relents, unsheathing it for her and carefully handing it to her. He’s happy when she calmly grabs it, handling it with the utmost care. Her grey eyes trail over it, looking at it in disbelief and wonder. “It’s so skinny.”

 

“Like you,” he teases. Normally she would make a smart quip back but she’s too enthralled with the steel in her hand. “I had Mikken make it special for you. It won’t hack any man’s head off, but if you’re quick enough it will poke him with many holes.”

 

“I can be quick,” she insists.

 

“I know, but like I said this isn’t a toy. If you want to wield this you’ll have to practice at it everyday. Just do it in secret for me, hm?” Arya nods along, giving him a toothy smile that he can’t help but return. “There is one more thing.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

He bends at the waist to get down to her eye-level, bringing a hand up to hold the side of her face. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” He rears back, standing to his full height to look at her, take her in, burn this moment into his memory. “I’m going to miss you.”

 

Arya stares at him, wide-eyed, before deciding to step in for a hug, moving too fast for someone with sharp steel in their hand.

 

“Careful,” he warns, eyeing the sword.

 

Sheepishly, she sets the sword down on the bed, but when it’s down she lunges at him and he grabs her up just as fast, wrapping his arms around her tiny middle as tightly as he can without hurting her. The arms she has around his neck grip just as tightly and she burrows her face into the crook of his neck. He doesn’t mind the tickling sensation of her breathing.

 

“You know, in all the legends the best swords have names,” he tells her, leaning his head against hers.

 

She takes a moment, thinking it over before she finally decides. “Sansa can keep her sewing needles for her pretty dresses. I have a needle of my own.”

 

Jon chuckles warmly at that, reaching up to give a playful tug to her messy braid. “That’s a good name. Very clever.”

 

She thanks him, and they are content to just stay like that, hugging for what seems like a lifetime, not wanting to let go. “I’m sorry for calling you a traitor and for not talking to you all week.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You’re not a traitor,” she continues. “You’re very brave and I’m happy you’re my big brother.”

 

He has to clench his eyes and shut them tightly to fight off the tears that are trying their best to come. His heart is lurching in his chest. He doesn’t think he’s ever loved someone this much.

 

“I love you, Arya,” he whispers, turning to kiss her on her crown.

 

She hugs him even tighter. “I love you, too.”

 

With a sigh, he finally pulls away with a lot of begrudgement and looks at the sword beside her. “Keep it safe for me, alright?”

 

“The next time we see each other, I’ll want a sparring match. A real one with our live steel.”

 

Jon doesn’t necessarily like the idea, but it’s only fair. He’s sparred with Robb numerous times and there was live steel involved during some of those occasions, and it would be interesting enough. “It’s a deal.”

 

He lets Arya go after that—Nymeria trailing after her—much to his chagrin, but he knows if she stayed he’d be distracted and would get behind schedule. Time seems to pass by pretty fast after that, and it’s daybreak by the time he’s sending off his two trunks to one of the numerous carts filled with the royal party’s things.  He bumps into Uncle Benjen on his way to the Great Hall to break his fast, and they go in together.

 

Much to his delight, all of his family is there already, Lady Stark noticeably absent. Jon can’t find it in him to care as he sits down next to Bran at his eager request. Jon’s also noticed that the princess is sitting at another table and also breaking her fast, surrounded by her ladies, Missandei and Merla. He chances a look at her every now and then, but he’s disappointed to see that she hadn't noticed him, instead she’s laughing and chatting away happily with her friends. Maybe she had seen him, but decided to ignore him due to all of the rumours and gossip. He feels eyes on him and is embarrassed to find his father looking at him, catching him sneaking looks at Daenerys. Remembering his father’s words, he doesn’t look at her again for the rest of his meal, trying to engage with his family to the best of his ability and not think of her, lest the self-doubt starts to drown him. It takes everything in him to keep his eyes from trailing after her when she sweeps by to leave, the ghost of the soft fabric of her dress touching him just the slightest bit, the sweet scent of her floral perfume dancing after her. He swallows his blood sausage down roughly.

 

Their shared mealtime ends shortly after that, and Jon knows that it’s about time for him to meet with the royal party at the gates and prepare for their departure. Rickon insists on being carried by him on their way outside, nearly crawling over the table to get to him, but Jon stands and grabs his wild baby brother up before he can do that, balancing him on his hip. Arya gives Jon a sad look as they all make their out of the hall and out into the main courtyard. Jon tries to smile at her instead but it feels more like a grimace. There is no faking it anymore.

 

There are people everywhere, and it makes Jon remember how the King came with a royal escort of a hundred men. He tries not to feel so overwhelmed as they make their way through throngs of people, some of the King's men, some of them father’s men. Rickon clutches onto him tightly, seemingly trying to press himself as close to Jon as possible.

 

He has to get his horse, so he goes to the stables first, his family following along. He notices that Silver is gone and so is Rose, the king’s steed. They must be getting mounted and ready, but perhaps not—at least on Daenerys’s end. It would make more sense for her to be in one of those fancy wheelhouses. She’d be safer that way, more comfortable. Robb tries to take Rickon so Jon can get his horse, but the boy refuses with a shout. Ned is about to step in, but Jon waves him off, secretly loving how clingy little Rickon is being. A stable boy, the one who had awkwardly made a show of bowing before him yesterday, brings over his grey palfrey with his head demurely bowed. Jon is grateful to see that the horse is all ready for him, saddle in place and everything. He thanks the stable boy to which he turns red and says _Ser_ , bowing once again, not only to him but his family too before he scurries off.

 

“They’re already calling you Ser,” Robb teases with a smirk.

 

Jon just rolls his eyes at him, and looks over to his father, gripping the reins of his horse in his free hand, the injured one, but he shakes off the nagging stinging sensation. “Shall we?” he asks his father. Ned gives a terse nod and then chooses to stalk off back towards the crowd. They all follow.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees something silver. He looks over to see that it’s the king, not the princess—as he was so foolishly hoping for. King Rhaegar is talking to his men, giving commands and telling them to form up. Jon supposes that this is it.

 

It is with regret that he breaks away from Rickon, handing him over to his father after placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. Rickon obviously fights, but Ned is strong enough to gently wrestle him off of Jon and shift Rickon’s little body into the cradle of his arm.

 

The goodbyes are hard. Bran is trying his best not to cry, bottom lip tucked under his front teeth trembling slightly. He gives him a sad smile, and a ruffle to his silky hair. “You’ll come visit me, won’t you?”

 

Bran nods, looking up at him with his own solemn smile. It looks so displaced on his young face. “I’ll train everyday and then I’ll become a knight, too. Just like you. We’ll see each other then.”

 

“I’ll be counting down the days,” he says, to which Bran’s smile changes into something more warm.

 

Uncle Benjen steps in and gives him an almost bone-crushing hug. “Be safe. Protect yourself.”

 

“I will.” Jon vows, hugging him for maybe a moment too long until someone clears their throat. They both break away to see it’s Robb. Jon snorts at his brother’s antics, but goes over to envelop him in a long hug as well. Over Robb’s shoulder he can see Theon lurking behind, watching the two of them with a keen eye. They stare at each other for a while before Theon decides to avert his gaze, and briskly walk away in the other direction. _Not even a goodbye, then._ Jon is not sure what he feels about that.

 

Robb breaks away first with a clap to Jon’s back. “Next time I see you, you’ll most likely be in white.”

 

“Not really my color, but I’ll make it work,” Jon jests, making Robb laugh fondly.

 

When his laughter dies down, Robb grows more serious, a sad twist to his mouth. “Farewell, Snow.”

 

“And you, Stark.”

 

Jon turns when he feels a soft tug at his leather jerkin, finding Arya there with round glossy eyes and a serious pout. “Don’t go,” she pleads softly.

 

He scoops her up, bringing her in closely for a second hug. “I have to, but remember our deal,” he whispers into her ear so no one else will hear, even if they’re all watching so closely. He’s referring to their future sparring match. “It’s set in stone, and I’m expecting you to prepare for it. Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” He sets her down with a sweet kiss to her forehead.

 

“Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” She repeats, nodding firmly once, and he thinks he can see something like determination burning in her eyes now. He loves her for it.

 

Ned steps in then, coming up to Jon with a grim expression. The hard Northern lines of his face are more pronounced than ever. He brings up a hand to rest it upon Jon’s shoulder. “No matter what you carry House Stark and the North with you. Carry it well and with honor. I look forward to hearing of where this journey may take you, and I especially look forward to seeing you again, son. I’m sure we’ll have much to talk about.”

 

Jon can hear the underlying promise in those words. The promise of getting to know more about his mother. If it means that he’ll have to get his knighthood first, then he will. “I look forward to it, too.”

 

Their hug is brief and when it is over, Ned tells him to go on, but Jon chooses to gather his horse’s reins again and stay back and wait for Sansa to share her goodbyes with them as well. It does his heart some good to see her embrace Arya in a quick hug. That was enough, at least.

 

Sansa comes over to him when she’s done—her wolf, Lady following along—looking over her shoulder to give a final smile and wave to their family. She looks at him unsurely, not used to it being just her and him. The feeling is more than mutual, but Jon escorts her into the fray of people and to where she points towards an ornate wheelhouse.

 

“The princess is waiting for me,” Sansa tells him with a smile, her general excitement at the prospect of going to the capital mounting rapidly. “I should go to her.”

 

”Aye, you should.”

 

Sansa nods, nibbling her thin lip for a moment before to turning to Lady with a frown. “Oh, I don’t know what to do with her,” she sighs, fingers fidgeting and pulling, “the men will be afraid of her, and I won’t be able to look after her in the wheelhouse.” 

 

Lady, sat back on her haunches, gives a low whimper, sensing her human companion’s troubled mood. Jon looks between the both of them staring at each other pitifully, and sighs internally. To him, it wouldn’t be a problem to look after Lady and Ghost will want to be around another pack mate. He just wishes she would feel comfortable enough to ask.

 

”I can look after Lady,” he offers. “She can hang behind with me and Ghost. No harm will come to her.” 

 

Sansa’s face changes drastically, lighting up with a gleeful smile and bright eyes. “Oh, really?” When he nods, she beams at him, reminding him of the chubby toddler that used to get away with following after him and Robb on wobbly feet— not caring about his societal status. “That would just be splendid! Thank you, Jon.” 

 

Jon huffs out a surprised laugh when she crosses over to give a him tight hug in thanks. She starts to thank him more profusely but he shoos her off before she can, watching after her as she goes up to the wheelhouse and then enters after knocking. He doesn’t budge until he can tell she’s safely inside. Ghost comes up as silent as the dead of night, scaring the horses, and looks up at him expectantly with his tongue lolled out.

 

To him it looks like he’s asking, _where to?_

 

“Well, boy,” he says, stepping to swing up into his saddle and giving his now nervous horse a pat on its neck, trailing his gloves hand through its shiny mane. “I guess it’s just the three of us now from here on out. We are going south.”

 

Ghost whimpers at that, Lady whining, and they both turn their heads back to see the rest of the wolves amongst the Starks. The wolves bark and growl, but Jon knows that they are sad to see their brother and sister go just as Jon is sad is to leave his home. He knows the wolves must be feeling the same.

 

“Mount up!” A voice booms from somewhere towards the front of the crowd. The king’s men fall quickly into place, getting onto their horses, and readying to depart.

 

From where he can see, the king is at the front of the procession on his horse, his shoulder-length silver hair easy to spot. “Onward!” The king shouts as he moves forward through the main gate of Winterfell, his men yell back in response, shouts of joy at the prospect of going back home. Jon is feeling quite the opposite.

 

They trickle out slowly after King Rhaegar. Jon keeps an eye on the large wheelhouse that houses Sansa— _and Daenerys—_ as it falls in line. Soon enough, he along with the men surrounding him start to move, and just before he gets through the gate, he turns and cranes his neck to see his family. All watching him and waving. He thinks he can hear Rickon crying, but tries not to dwell on it. He gives them one final shaky wave and when he turns back to face forward, he does not look back at them again even though it pains him.

 

It is after they get through Wintertown—which took them quite some time, many people came out to see the royal party leave and that held them up, for the road became a little congested—that’s he able to bring it in himself to look back.

 

He turns to see nothing. No Arya. No Robb. No Bran. No Rickon. No Uncle Benjen. No father.

 

Just the foreboding stone towers of Winterfell disappearing slowly in the distance.

 

Jon urges himself to never look back again. Only forward. He can only ever look forward now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo... was that too much? not enough? let me know! jonno’s off to the capital, baby! dany’s pov next time!


	5. homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys tells Jon a very sad secret and goes home to find that there is shocking news awaiting her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wanted to leave an important notice here about the last chapter.
> 
> There were questions about Lady and whether or not she comes with Sansa down south—she does but because I usually post these chapters in the wee hours of the morning I somehow forgot to include that??? So, I went back and did and you can see for yourself if you like. If not, Lady is making the trip! And Jon is looking after her along with Ghost because it’s easier for Sansa that way. But I do encourage you to look in the previous chapter if that was something you were particularly curious about.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

Traveling down the kingsroad was a long and arduous journey. It was nothing like actually traveling up it. The first time, she was scared, yes—thinking too much about how the northernmost kingdom would receive them, but she was also thrilled. Never once had she stepped outside of the overpopulated city that was her home, and the North was a wonder to her. 

 

Now she and Rhaegar were back to traveling with their people, and being back in this gaudy wheelhouse was to say the least—annoying.

 

Oh, how she missed her Silver. 

 

Asking Rhaegar to ride horseback was a useless endeavor, but she did anyway on the night before they departed. Her brother looked at her with the exasperation she expected and then turned down her request—like she expected. _Proprieties,_ he said. 

 

And he was right, she had to be the proper princess and hostess, for Sansa Stark was accompanying her on their way to the capital. 

 

Just like her a couple months ago, Sansa had never stepped outside of her home, so it was safe to say that the girl was a constant nervous wreck. It showed in the way Sansa would babble about the most random of things— how she admired the way Daenerys’ hair shone under the sunlight, the kind of garments she packed, Rickon and smelly his diapers were was he was a babe (though, as soon as the words slipped mindlessly from her lips, she caught herself and profusely apologized while turning red as an apple—Daenerys didn’t mind) she even talked about Arya and wondered how she was doing, much to Daenerys’s surprise. Usually, someone being so talkative—day and night—would fray anyone’s mind, but it kept Daenerys occupied. 

 

They had fun, the two of them. Playing all sorts of nonsensical games to pass the time and Sansa telling stories of growing up with her rowdy siblings in Winterfell—when Daenerys could stomach it, she’s even give Sansa a tale or two of her own about her time growing up in the Red Keep with Viserys. _Only_ when she could stomach it, though—no sooner than that. 

 

She especially liked when they would peek their heads outside of the window, and Sansa would tell her whatever she knew about the Northern land rolling past them in dull greys, murky browns, and dark greens—pointing at this small holdfast and that tiny village. Daenerys took it all in with an open mind and open ears. 

 

_One day, I will sit the Iron Throne, and I will be responsible for these people and these lands._

 

And as she thought of her sickly mother and her weary brother, she had a feeling that perhaps that day would come sooner than she hoped.

 

Entertaining Sansa everyday was also a reprieve of sorts, for her mind. Passing the time with her almost gave her barely any time to think about what had been bothering ever since that night— _almost_. 

 

Jon Snow. 

 

That’s what had been bothering her. After they had been discovered by his brother, Jon kept his measured distance. That next morning, sitting in the Great Hall while breaking their fasts had been upsetting, to say the least. 

 

She could feel every discreet look he thought he casting her way. No, he wasn’t discreet at all, and it made trying to keep up her unbothered facade all the more difficult. It was like she could feel the yearning on his part, and the defeat. 

 

That was her fault, she knew it, but the shame of being caught in his chambers by Robb was too hard for her to shake. All she could think about was— _what if it had been somebody else?_ It wasn’t that she personally cared about what people thought of her, although if her mother knew that she would yank her by the ear. 

 

They could think whatever they wanted of her, Daenerys doesn’t answer to them. Not yet anyway, because her brother always said that being King didn’t mean that the people were there to serve him, but that _he_ was there to serve them. To be at their will. 

 

Luckily, she wasn’t at the mercy of the people just yet. So, let them gossip and tell tales of her, it did not bother her. It only bothered her that they were not only gossiping and those telling tall tales of _just_ her, but Jon as well. 

 

Daenerys knew that Jon was the self-deprecative type—a life of being the only bastard to Ned Stark would do that. She knew that Jon always got in his head, in his own way. That he was always hyper-aware of his place in the world, much to her chagrin. If she had it her way, bastards wouldn’t be looked down upon and called filthy names for just simply existing. 

 

She remembered the vile things people in the Red Keep would mutter about Missandei. _A slave girl, a bastard, a whore…_

 

It’s true that words are just wind, but they can weigh as heavy as stone, and Daenerys vows that when she comes into her crown, all of those vile words will be cast aside and left in the old, prejudiced world ran by oppressors rather than nurturers—for she will create a new world, a better one, in which each new dawn brings a promise of love and acceptance.

 

 _Yes_ —she thinks, _ruling with love can be just as powerful. It can be just as great._

 

* * *

 

 

It is when they stop at an inn, a rare thing—for Rhaegar likes to ride at a steady pace and their host is simply too large for everyone to be housed and properly fed by the innkeepers—that Daenerys sneaks off. 

 

She must see him. It has been nearly three weeks and every time their host stops for a rest or for the men to water and feed their horses, she can almost never find him. She did a couple of times, but whenever he saw her, he turned away, ignoring her completely. 

 

No, _this_ time it will be different. She _will_ find him and he _will_ talk to her. 

 

Luckily for her, they have stopped at a rather spacious inn just south of the Neck, and even more luckily for her—it is night and pitch black out. The men have been growing restless from riding at such a brisk pace, the last true break having been a few days ago, and she can tell most of them are looking to have a drink or two. The inn is filling up with rowdy cheers of whole-bodied men, and she can hear the loud chants of— _‘Dragon King!’ ‘Dragon King!’’ ‘Dragon King!’—_ from inside, so she knows Rhaegar has just walked in and is otherwise, extremely occupied. 

 

Sansa leaves out, making a mention of wanting to see her direwolf, Lady, who Jon just so happened to be looking after. Daenerys waits a bit before trailing after her, easily able to see the coppery shine of her Tully hair in the night. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see her like this, so she discreetly pulls the large hood of her cloak up to mask the pale silver of her hair. Sansa politely greets the men she happens to pass by, but Daenerys keeps her head low. 

 

As usual, Jon is near the end of the host and Daenerys hangs back behind a rather large cart as Sansa approaches him in a friendly fashion. She hears them exchange pleasantries and Sansa complain about the blood on Lady’s muzzle from her hunt with Ghost. Her heart stammers to hear Jon’s husky laugh. She hasn’t heard that in weeks. It hits her then just how much she misses her friend. 

 

With her heart in her throat, she calmly waits for their conversation to pass. It doesn’t take too long, for the relationship between the brother and sister is awkward, stitled, and on shaky ground. She can only thank the gods this is Sansa rather than Arya, or she’d be waiting here all night. 

 

Sansa leaves with Lady, wishing Jon goodnight awkwardly and making her trek all the way back to the wheelhouse. For a split second, she curses herself for her forgetfulness. Sansa will be wondering where she is and she can only hope that the girl will meet up with Missandei and Merla. Daenerys also fears Sansa alone in the night like this with all these men, but her fear is unfounded when she thinks of the great direwolf at her side. Lady may be the most behaved of all the wolves, but she is still that—a wolf. No harm will come to her owner. 

 

Worries cast aside, Daenerys breathes in sharply and then steps out into the open. Jon is turned away from her, lean form bent over at the waist, tying his boot. It gives her a good chance to catch him unaware. Ghost is resting nearby under a tree with his head resting on his paws, his intelligent red eyes just watch her indifferently. 

 

Quietly on the tips of her toes, she makes her way over, heart hammering rapidly as she stops just a few steps away. Despite herself, pink blooms on her cheeks when she’s able to make out the shape of his ass. Even under his layers. Jon sighs as he stands back to his full height, and she waits. 

 

“Have a good hunt, boy?” His back still turned to her as he addresses Ghost. “Might be that I go into the inn, have something warm for once.” 

 

He turns, probably on his way to do just that, but stops abruptly seeing her there. At this rate, her heart will shoot through her chest and fall at his feet. She hopes he can’t see through the veil she has on, most likely he won’t. She’s always been exceptionally well at masking her emotions. 

 

Jon, as much as he tries, isn’t so well at it. The dumbstruck look on his face is plain enough. The uncomfort that sets in after even more so. 

 

“Daenerys… what are you doing out here?” 

 

He doesn’t even look at her, eyes darting here and there, looking every bit of skittish. She tries not to let it hurt her and she won’t. She came for a reason, anyway. 

 

She pastes a smile onto her face, hands coming up to clasp together in front of her abdomen. “I can’t come outside?” 

 

“I mean—” the sigh he heaves out into the air is heavy, she notices how tired he looks. The ride must be hard on him. He mustn't ever get any proper rest. Not for the first time does she feel guilty about her royal status. If she weren’t the future of the Seven Kingdoms, she’d be right out here with him. Maybe she’d prefer it that way. “—why are you _here_?” 

 

The question is simple, but to her it sounds like: _Why are you bothering me?_ It says: _I don’t want you here._

 

Her face falls just the slightest, her confidence shaken, and now she’s grateful he’s not looking her way. 

 

“We haven’t talked much,” is her lame answer. It sounds utterly pitiful even to her with her soft voice—it must sound that way to him too because he chooses then to look up at her with a grimace. Her skin crawls at the thought of being pitied. _Dragons aren’t weak._ “Why do you turn from me?” the question is more forceful than intended and his eyes widen a fraction, but she needs to take control of the situation before she truly starts to feel like the fool she probably is.

 

Jon shifts on his feet, throwing a look to Ghost, maybe asking for help. The wolf just stares, completely unbothered. Begrudgingly, he turns back to her. “What are you talking about?” 

 

“Every time I’ve tried to come to see you, you leave or just ignore me entirely,” she tries not to sound bitter about it. She fails. “Why?” 

 

He looks around at their surroundings, deeming that they’re alone enough to say, “You shouldn’t be here, Daenerys. You should go, leave me.” 

 

Frustration builds inside her, not understanding. She drops her hands to her sides, taking a step forward. “Is this about those foolish, baseless rumors back at Winterfell?” He says nothing. “Is it?” she demands, voice climbing. 

 

His eyes shoot around them again before he turns to her with a frown. “They’re not foolish. Things like that have weight to them.” 

 

“I’m not saying they don’t because I know they can and that they do. They _are_ foolish though, because I say they are,” she states plainly, brows knitting together in irritation when he laughs under his breath. Nothing she just said was humorous. “What?” 

 

His mouth tugs at the corners, the small smile there condescending, making her heart beat faster but instead of anxiety, ire is filling her veins. 

 

“What’s so funny?” she hisses as her fingers balls up into fists. 

 

“We are just so—so _different._ You’re able to think that way, Daenerys, because you are a princess. It’s different for me. It always will be.” 

 

With that he turns away, stalking off to a copse of thick oaks nearby. His words leave her dumbfounded, making her take a moment to gather her bearings as she stares at his retreating form. 

 

He’s nearly disappeared into the trees, shrouded by the dark of the night when she starts into action. Her feet pick up at a quick pace to follow him, needing to have the last word—or at least another.

 

“It won’t be,” she declares, still striding after him. “It won’t be because I won’t let it!” 

 

Jon snorts disparagingly. “You’re proving my point.”

 

Finally, she catches up to him under a big oak and she grabs at his arm forcefully, making him look at her. To understand what she is trying to say. “No, hear me when I say this,” she prefaces with an imploring look. “Yes, I am a princess, but I’m also the heir to the throne and when I come into my throne, those things will not matter. Because I will not let them.”

 

“So, blind faith then? That’s what you want?” 

 

She knows why he’s being so combative. This is something he’s had to deal with for his entire life. Undeserved cruelty is the norm for him. Just like undeserved love—because she is only a royal princess, and that is far different than being a true monarch—is for her. The love she wants, she has to earn. 

 

Daenerys smiles sadly. “No, Jon. I don’t need your faith, not before you have faith in yourself.” 

 

A wry smile twists at his lips, his dark eyes gleaming. “And what exactly about me is so worthy of worship?” 

 

“You are kind,” she says softly, not having to think twice about it, “and if you’ve been avoiding me for the reasons I think—honorable… but maybe to a fault.” 

 

Jon stays silent for a moment, looking up to survey the treeline in thought. “There is not much fault in honor, I think.” he says after a while. “And I don't think honor is something to be praised for having. We should all have honor, always.”

 

Daenerys can see that’s the Stark in him talking. She’s always grown up hearing about how northmen value nothing more than having an oath and sticking to it. Most of them would probably die by it. 

 

 _He’ll make a great white cloak,_ she muses. 

 

“Maybe so, but not everyone is like you.” He looks down at her then with a raised brow. It’s hard for her not to smile. “It’s true,” she insists with a single squeeze to his arm. 

 

He huffs a breath, mouth pulling up at the edges. “Are you sure you don’t want my faith? You’re making a very good case for it.” 

 

Her smile widens, but she shakes her head. “No, Jon. I mean what I said—faith in _yourself_ first.” 

 

Jon hums noncommittally, seeming to brush it off. It was clear that the idea was absurd to him, so she decides to take a different approach. To appeal to him with wisdom. 

 

She tells him something from the wisest person she knows. 

 

“My mother told me once: _If not faith in the gods, stand on the faith of yourself— that way the only true obstacle in your life is yourself. And no obstacle is greater than that. Neither is any weapon._ ”

 

Those words had come to Daenerys in the darkest time of her young life. Waking up to a world with one less brother, one less of her own blood. It was a time where she doubted the existence of things like gods and invisible higher-powers. How can there be any of that if there was so much pain—so much suffering happening day to day. She asked her mother as such, and of course, Queen Rhaella always knew what to say, even when she was so devastated herself. Although, she’s still not sure where stands on the subject of the divine. 

 

His dark brows furrow as he let the words sink in. “That sounds… terrifying,” he mutters and Daenerys has to agree. Some of the best advice she’s ever received was from her mother, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t fear-inducing. 

 

“I know,” she murmurs softly, releasing her tight grip to bring her hands to her side once more. “Most words of wisdom are, because they come from a place we don’t yet understand.” She spots a thick log resting in the grass and makes her way over to sit. To her relief, he follows, although he noticeably chooses to sit a little further away than needed. The moon shines through the mess of leaves above them and that’s where she chooses to focus her line of sight as she says, “But what I _do_ understand is that she’s right—about ourselves being our only true obstacles.” 

 

With a sigh, she turns back to Jon who’s already been looking her way. His dark eyes intent. “You are your only true obstacle, Jon Snow. Your pain is valid, but it is not the only thing you’ll ever know. Not if you truly let it.”

 

“You’re quite wise yourself,” he husks, eyes flitting over her face. Daenerys can see the question lying in their steely depths, wondering what has hurt her and to what extent. “You also sound experienced with it—pain.” Because she recognizes this as an olive branch of sorts and she feels she’s getting somewhere with him, she chooses to relent. To sate his careful curiosity. 

 

Gulping, she looks down for a moment, fiddling with the fabric of her velvet soft dress before she breathes out lowly. “I am, in some ways.” 

 

Silence is the only thing she gets and she’s nearly disappointed by it but she glances back up and Jon is there, eyes conveying the utmost patience and compassion. His undivided attention is more than welcome. After spending every night and nearly everyday for a month with a person, you become somewhat dependent, sort of expecting them to be there. Rhaegar always said that it only takes a moonturn to form a habit, even the most dangerous ones. 

 

Because of this, missing her friend, she finds herself not afraid to leap off the cliff she’s been standing at for more than a year. To confess. She’ll do it to gain his favor.

 

“Do you know what happened to my brother?”

 

Jon stiffens, eyebrows quickly drawing together. “The King? Is something wrong?” 

 

“No, no. Rhaegar is fine,” she watches as his face sinks with realization. “Viserys, I mean.” 

 

He shifts uncomfortably, shaking his head. “Oh, Daenerys, I—I’m not...” 

 

“Do you?” 

 

Narrowing his eyes, he nods solemnly. “A fall, was it? An accident.” 

 

 _Ah, so he’s only heard the shorter, false version of it._ She should’ve known, only a handful of people know what truly happened. 

 

“A drunken accident,” she says with an odd air of cynicism, finding a sad humor in the ridiculous nature of that lie, “except—he wasn’t drunk, and it sure wasn’t an accident.” 

 

Jon is obviously confused, mouth falling open and close to say something, but only coming up with, “What?” 

 

“That’s the lie we told everyone,” she says simply, looking down at her fidgety fingers, “but it’s not true. Yes, Viserys liked a drink every now and again but he was no drunken fool and I _hate_ that he’s being remembered that way.”

 

Sometimes the unfairness of it all makes her want to burn the world down. In those times, she’d give anything to be her great ancestor, Visenya atop her great dragon, Vhagar. 

 

“Tell me—tell me what happened.” The night air becomes colder as he presses for more, but it doesn’t bother her so much as Jon has come closer now. The heat of his body feeling like reassurance. 

 

The tale is one so terrible that she has to take a moment to draw in a deep breath, gathering her strength, her courage. Jon scoots in a bit closer, keen on hearing it. 

 

She releases her breath, focusing on the distant white of Ghost’s fur some feet away from them. “Rhaegar is known for being melancholic, yes?” Out of the corner of her she can see Jon nod quietly. “That’s very well true, but no one got as sad as Viserys did. Or even as angry, but it was more of the sadness when it came to him. We were all so blind about it,” she says, chuckling dismally, kicking over a random stone at her feet, “and we did _nothing._ Viserys was great at making everyone see what he wanted them to—he was the crown prince after all, and he did his best to act that way. Doing whatever he wanted and looking happy doing it. He loved going to feasts, frequenting the brothels, and he really loved dancing.”

 

A distant ringing of familiar laugher softly dances through the air as the leaves rustle in the wind. Her heart twists so painfully that she has to take a moment, a deep breath. Only after Jon reaches over to take her hand, does she continue. “He constantly went out into the city and caused mischief, but people loved him. It seemed he loved them, that he loved all of it, always seen smiling and laughing. Now I just know that it was all a farce to keep us happy, so that we never knew a thing.” She looks down to his hand in hers. It is still bandaged, but it’s warm. It steadies her. “Viserys liked to talk about ruling and being king. I think he saw it as some game at first, not truly realizing just how much goes into running a kingdom until Rhaegar started bringing him into council meetings, or to court. It shattered all of the notions of ruling for him and started hating anything to do with it. He even started to resent Rhaegar for never remarrying and having children.”

 

Her eyes close as her mind takes her back to those days. Viserys and Rhaegar has fought so much with each other. One time after Viserys had blamed Rhaegar for the deaths of Elia and his children, the two of them nearly yelled the whole keep down. No one could temper them. Not her, their mother, their closest advisors—no one. She had never seen Rhaegar consumed with so much rage and Viserys with so much hate. Both of them yelled and argued until they were blue in the face and Viserys stormed out of the keep into the city. That had been a week before his ultimate demise. 

 

“Daenerys, don’t cry,” Jon murmurs, now pressed against her side with a heavy arm wrapped around her shoulders. 

 

 _I am not crying, dragons do not weep,_ is what she wants to say because she didn’t even realize that she _was_ until he said something. When did her vision become so blurry?

 

“You don’t have to tell me anythin’ else,” he says quietly, his northern burr soothing now. She leans into his embrace, turning her face into his chest. “We can just sit here if you want.” 

 

She almost takes him up on that offer. It’d be easier to fall into the quiet of the forest surrounding them, to run from the things that keep her up at night, to put it off for another day or maybe never at all. But, she’s been doing that for too long now. It’s not even about telling _him_ , it’s about just finally saying it out loud. Daenerys realizes that this is for her own good.

 

“No,” she says, sniffling and wiping at her eyes as she pulls away from him. He frowns very deeply, pretty face marred with concern. “No, I have to say this. For me.” 

 

He’s still frowning but she thinks she sees a shadow of understanding pass over his eyes. “Alright, if that’s what you want.” 

 

She takes his hand again, clasping it between both of hers, clearing her throat to continue. Jon just listens, fingers tightening around hers. “So, Viserys started to resent everything to do with the crown and his looming duties. Towards the last of his days, he was different—off. Viserys was always a morning person, but he’d stay in his chambers until the late afternoons. Mother had to pound on his door and force him out. He barely ate at dinner, or any time really. No smiles, no laughs. Mother and Rhaegar paid no real mind to it, but I couldn’t ignore it. It was too strange.”

 

The gaunt, pale visage that had replaced her brother’s otherwise lively, bright features haunt her. Daenerys remembered how sunken-in his dull, lilac eyes had become. Already lifeless. 

 

“So the night before he—” her voice catches, lips trembling, but she braves through it, “—I went to him. I had to bang on his door for what seemed like hours before he let me in. There was no light, no candles burning, so we sat outside on the balcony under the moon. I stayed there with him in silence until he finally told me he loved me. I should’ve known then…” A wave of grief washes over her. All the signs were right in front of her. A failure is what she feels like. “Viserys was never vocal about his affections. Ever. But that night he looked at me so gently and told me he loved me with every breath in his body—said he would love all of us until his _last_ breath. I didn’t know what to say, so he just held me until the sun came up.”

 

If Daenerys closes her eyes and tunes out the sounds of the world around her long enough, she could still feel his warm arms around her, his breath on her hair, the steady beat of his heart. 

 

“I didn’t see him once the next day,” she heaves a mournful sigh, “he didn’t come to dinner and I just knew… something was wrong. Terribly wrong.” That night comes back to her in a rush. Hurriedly excusing herself from dinner, running to Viserys’ room—Ser Barristan hot on her heels, Rhaegar and her mother calling after her, the thundering of her heart as sheer panic sliced through her, the horror of finding what she found. Jon’s grip tightens to the point where it feels like her left hand is in a vice. He looks so horrified, so enthralled that she doesn’t think he notices, but his strength gives her strength.

 

“When I happened upon his dark chambers, all I saw was him standing there on the balcony. Before I could even say anything, Jon, even call his name…” The image of his body falling quietly—so far up that she couldn’t even hear the impact of his skull cracking open against the stone that was waiting for him—plays over and over again in her head. The same way it does in her nightmares, but it is in those that she always gets close enough to reach out for him, her fingertips just brushing against his.

 

Daenerys looks over to see Jon’s horror-stricken face. The only person besides her family that has the bare bones of Viserys’s tragic death. Guilt starts to fester as she thinks that maybe she shouldn’t have told him. 

 

She feels slightly afraid now herself. “I shouldn’t have…” her hands fall away from his, but to her relief he chases after them, holding onto them as he blinks openly, trying to process all of what she just told him. “Was that too much?” she whispers. 

 

Jon gulps, brows heavily knitted together as he looks at her with wide eyes. “Daenerys… I am so sorry. I didn’t know—”

 

“But how could you?” she gives him a watery smile. “I’ve only just told you now. Don’t be sorry.”

 

 _It’s my fault, anyway,_ she wants to say. 

 

Jon sighs. “Of course, but now I just feel like a fool.” 

 

“Why?”

 

The guilt is written clear across his face which confuses her. He, as far as she feels, has nothing to feel guilty for. 

 

“I turned away from a friend,” is all he says, sad smile lining his mouth. 

 

She opens her mouth to reassure him, but in the distance she hears Missandei and Merla calling out for her. Regretfully, she gathers herself and stands to her feet, shooting a remorseful look Jon’s way.

 

“Go on,” he says, waving her off. “I’ll stay out here for a little bit longer.” 

 

Daenerys sighs but goes, knowing that her friends are most likely worried about her, walking a few feet before stopping to look back at him again. “Jon?” she calls, making him look up at her expectantly. “When we get to the capital, get settled, but don’t be a stranger.” She means to come off as playfully demanding but there’s a little hint of something desperate in her tone. Her eyes wide in a way that looks pleading. 

 

Thankfully, Jon doesn’t say anything about it, just choosing to give a warmer smile and a nod. “Aye, I won’t… _Your Grace_.” He chuckles when she narrows her eyes at his usage of the title. Missandei and Merla call out for her again, Ser Barristan’s voice mixing in with theirs. “Go on,” he tells her again, shooing her off with a wide grin. 

 

Turning back with reluctance, she follows the voices of her friends and her old knight. 

 

“Oh, and Daenerys?” Jon calls out, making her look over her shoulder. “Thank you—” her eyebrow raises in questioning, “—for telling me.” He sounds truly grateful, too. Happy to have been her confidant. 

 

When Daenerys meets up with her worried friends and an even more worried Ser Barristan who scolds her, a smile is fighting its way onto her face despite the lingering sadness of rehashing her brother’s tragic end. 

 

But the smile, it eventually wins. The slow stretch of it making her cheeks rise higher than they have in weeks. 

 

* * *

 

 

Rolling through the crowded streets of King’s Landing brings her immense joy. The sun beats down on their party as they snake and circle through the city. People cry out for her, for Rhaegar, for Ser Arthur and Barristan. Even just as delightful, they also cry out for Sansa with cries of—‘ _pretty girl!’_ ‘ _fair maiden!’_ —and the redhead beams as she pokes her head out through the window and waves, inciting even more cheers. 

 

Daenerys watches Sansa with great amusement from the seat across her. “They are enjoying you,” she says when Sansa pops her head back in and relaxes in her seat. “I’m sure you’ll do well here.” 

 

Sansa, whose face is red with joy, preens under the praise. “I hope to bring honor to my family and make my house proud during my time here, Your Grace.”  

 

“Don’t worry about that, you will,” she assures her, leaning forward to place a hand on the girl’s knee, “and it’s _Daenerys_. We are friends, are we not?” 

 

To her added amusement, Sansa snorts, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth. Her pretty face now going vividly scarlet with embarrassment, but like the true lady she is, she recovers instantly, clearing her throat and acting nonchalant. “It is still not proper for me to address you as such. Do all of your friends call you by name?” 

 

Missandei does, and the only friend besides Missandei who calls on her familiarly, is Jon. Everyone else though uses her titles, even Merla still. Daenerys isn’t sure if she should tell Sansa that, though. 

 

“No,” she replies, looking out of the window and smiling to all of the faces that pass by. “I suppose not. You have a fair point, Lady Sansa.” 

 

Sansa sighs, starting to fidget with her hands, a tell of her nervousness. “I just do not want to be improper… or odd. It is my duty to make a good impression,” she frowns, determination setting in, “and I will.” 

 

Daenerys could laugh. Sansa is the most proper person she knows. That attitude might fly out the window once she meets a few of the other ladies at court and see how much they truly care for propriety. 

 

But she doesn’t laugh, instead just simply agreeing with, “Yes, you will.” 

 

“What about the Queen?” Sansa asks, changing subjects as they travel up the Street of the Sister. 

 

Daenerys turns to her with a raised brow. “What about her?” 

 

“Is she…” her words hang in the air as she hesitates, wringing her hands together, “well? Better?” 

 

She thinks back to the couple of letters she’s been able to exchange with her mother during her stay in Winterfell. The Queen’s health has improved enough for her to be able to get out of bed, though she can’t walk around the keep for long periods of time much and to the woman’s chagrin, she has to more often than not rely on a cane. 

 

Daenerys is just glad that she’s able to walk at all. When they left, she was so sure her mother was taking a turn for the worst. But her mother had taken a lot of the realm’s matters into her hands while Rhaegar was gone. Grand Maester Pycelle was so sure that her mother wouldn’t make it, and had strongly advised against her acting as Regent. 

 

But, Queen Rhaella is a fighter—through and through. 

 

Her grin is genuine as she assures Sansa that the Queen is fine. “My mother is well. Do not worry, and she’s looking forward to meeting you.” 

 

Sansa lights up at that. “Really? You told the Queen about me?” 

 

“Of course, I did. Our court will be happy to have you.”

 

They chatter the rest of the way to the keep. Daenerys keeping up the pretense of being collected and calm. She’s excited, though, to see her mother. To be back home. 

 

Soon enough, the Red Keep comes into view, her feet starting to tap impatiently. Looking at the grand red-washed stone towers of the place she calls home, Daenerys thinks about Jon, wondering how he’s feeling about it all, what he thinks, if he’s just as in awe as his sister is. She hopes he is, remembering his initial apprehension about coming down south. 

 

She thinks of her friend, so wrapped in thoughts of his well-being, that she startles when their wheelhouse comes to a sudden, jolting stop at the gates of the palace. Sansa is practically vibrating in her seat. 

 

There are several yells, and then a herald is announcing their return to the keep. To her delighted surprise, the one thing she’s been looking forward to is already there, accompanied by a few guards, and of course, Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King. 

 

Daenerys impatiently waits for the wheelhouse door to be opened, and when it does, all of her manners fall away, too excited to get to her mother. Queen Rhaella is standing there adorned in the most regal of red and black gowns with a satin head-wrap to match, poised and dignified until Daenerys barrels into her and clutches at her with overwhelming relief. 

 

“Daenerys,” Rhaella hisses into her ear but hugs her back with just as much fervor. “I’m glad to see you, too, my sweet, but—”

 

“But our Queen is not the strongest as of late,” comes a teasing voice. Daenerys pulls back, hands resting on her mother’s arms to look down and meet Tyrion’s fond gaze, a wry smile on his lips. “Be gentle, would you?” 

 

Daenerys rolls her eyes, but is unable to not smile back. She has a soft spot for the Lannister man. He has certainly been more pleasant than his lord father, Tywin. She knows it’s a near evil thing, but sometimes she counts their lucky stars that Tywin had become ill and Tyrion had been elected to fill in as Hand. The man had been cold and even sometimes frightening. It’s been two years since Tywin was in the capital and he could stay on the Rock for all she cared.

 

“Our Queen is _very_ strong, mind you.” She’s even noticed that Rhaella has foregone a cane, so it must be one of her better days. “She was running the kingdom alongside you, or did you forget, Lord Hand?” 

 

“Hard to forget with a queen as willful and duty-bound as ours.” 

 

Rhaella shoots him a displeased look, lips pursed, Tyrion doesn’t look fazed in the slightest. “Oh, speak plainly. You were exhausted with me, I know it.” 

 

Daenerys has to bite back down a laugh when Tyrion looks up at her mother with widened eyes, mouth ajar in mock horror. “Your Grace, why I never—”

 

“Oh, hush,” Rhaella scolds, turning to look back at Daenerys. “You look well, Dany. Did you enjoy yourself?” 

 

She nods. “I did. House Stark was very welcoming, all of them kind and respectful.” 

 

“Good, good,” Rhaella hums, looking her over with a critical eye from head to toe to ensure her well-being. 

 

“Speaking of House Stark,” Tyrion says, eyes trained on something behind her. Daenerys turns to see Sansa standing off to the side, looking extremely nervous. “Ah, you must be Lady Sansa,” he greets her with a polite smile, beckoning her over with a wave. “I am Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King.”

 

Sansa approaches, hands folded together in front of her, a meek smile on her face. “I know, of course you are. Nice to meet you, my Lord Hand.” 

 

“Right, _of course I am_ , how many dwarves are Hand of the King,” he drawls in his typical cynical fashion. 

 

Sansa pales in horror, face falling drastically. Daenerys shoots a withering look Tyrion’s way. “That is not—” Sansa starts, hands flailing, “—I didn’t mean it that way. That would be most improper a-and rude!”

 

“You fool,” Rhaella mutters to him before turning to Sansa with a welcoming grin. “Forgive our Hand, Lady Sansa. He has a dry wit.” 

 

Sansa shakes her head rapidly. “No, forgive me, Your Grace,” her eyes widen a fraction more than what they were as Rhaella steps away from Daenerys and approaches her, “that was my mistake. I duly apologize.” 

 

Rhaella smiles warmly as she regards Sansa. “You take after your mother,” she says in clear approval making Sansa’s cheeks redden. “I expect you’ll do well here.” 

 

“Ah, um, thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa stammers, glancing to Daenerys nervously before turning back to Rhaella to dip into a perfect curtsy. “It is an honor to meet you,” she meekly looks up at the Queen under long lashes for another moment before moving closer to Daenerys’ side. 

 

It makes Daenerys feels warm to think she’s seeking comfort in her presence. She prides herself in it already. 

 

Rhaella’s face brightens at the sight of someone coming up behind them, although she remains composed. Daenerys turns to see Rhaegar stalking up with a face-stretching grin, arms opened wide to embrace their mother. Sansa presses into her side even more now. 

 

“Ah, Mother,” Rhaegar sighs into his shared embrace with the Queen. Daenerys thinks he looks ten years younger as he pulls back to appraise Rhaella, his shoulder-length silver hair loose and his indigo eyes tender. “It has been too long without you,” he smiles, not caring if he sounds like a mother’s boy. Everyone knows he is, anyway.

 

Rhaella gleams. “And without you, my King,” she pats his arm, “now we must get straight to business. You have been gone for a time and there is much to go over.” she tells him, grasping his arm and turning him in the direction of the keep.

 

Her brother sighs, exasperated but fond. “You never stop, Mother, but so be it.” With a nod of his head, Ser Arthur comes trailing after him in his glistening white armor and Daenerys watches as they disappear into the castle. 

 

She shifts her gaze onto Tyrion, a brow raised. “Aren’t you going to join them, Lord Hand?” 

 

“Nothing I haven’t heard for the past month, Princess,” he sighs and produces a canister that’s sure to have his favorite Dornish red inside. Daenerys narrows her eyes when he knocks back a swig and sighs in contentment after. “The King can hear it for himself.”

 

“And that is?” 

 

Tyrion turns on her with a shrewd gaze, taking another swig before answering. “Our Small Council thinks it’ll be a swell idea to hold a tourney,” he shakes his head and laughs, telling her that he obviously finds the idea to be folly. “For what reason you may ask? Oh, I do not know, but that slimy little p—” He looks over to Sansa at her side, watching on quietly, and remembers to mind his tongue. “All I know is our Master of Coin is quite keen on the notion.” 

 

The bite of Tyrion’s words as he speaks of Lord Petyr Baelish doesn’t go unnoticed. The two of them have never gotten along. She doesn’t blame Tyrion either. The man can be quite… ominous. Certainly not to be trusted, in her opinion.

 

Daenerys frowns. “We do have the coin for it—don’t we?” 

 

The Hand of the King swirls his drink in his hand, going quiet and looking over in Sansa’s direction once more. Daenerys is quick to catch on. 

 

She steps away, bringing Sansa along with her and beckons Missandei and Merla over. She gives them directions to get Sansa settled, requesting to put her in the finest guest chambers which happen to be close by her own. Sansa refuses, feeling like it’ll be too much, but Daenerys insists and soon enough, the three ladies are off as she sends for someone else to bring Sansa’s things up at once. 

 

A fleeting feeling of doing the same for Jon comes, making her crane her neck around the bustle of men and women to look for him. She is slightly disappointed to come up empty. _Perhaps he is fine_ , she tells herself. She knows he tends to be quite independent, anyway. 

 

Once Sansa is all taken care of, she goes back over to Tyrion and presses him further. “We have coin, Tyrion. We are not dried up, are we?” 

 

“No, no, don’t fret,” Tyrion rushes to assure her, with a wave of the hand he beckons her to follow him away from under the beating sun of the city and into the Red Keep. “If anything else, our Master of Coin is talented when it comes to coin. We are well off, Princess.” 

 

A sigh of relief escapes her, but then another question comes. “Why exactly _is_ there need for a tourney?”

 

Her nameday is months away, Rhaegar’s had already passed, and she couldn’t see any reason to have such an affair. 

 

Tyrion’s dodgy mismatched gaze had apprehension rising within herself. He doesn’t answer her right away, shrugging off her unwavering stare with, “The walls, Princess.” 

 

Meaning that there are of course people watching and listening within the palace, and no conversation is safe out in the open. It makes her wonder where their Master of Whispers, Lord Varys, is. His infamous little birds, too. 

 

She also knows that if he is taking her to chambers instead of the Tower of the Hand, this news must be something. Ser Barristan stands sentry at her doors along with a couple of palace guards.

 

Daenerys can’t even enjoy being back in her own room after a month’s long ride because Tyrion sits her down in front of the dead hearth and pushes a goblet of wine her way, insisting she drinks it. 

 

When she is finished, she sets down the empty goblet on the table next to her, fingers fiddling with the golden stem as he stares at her in quiet. _Well, he’s not going to come out with it, is he?_ she muses to herself. 

 

The Lord Hand looks largely uncomfortable as he taps his fingers on the surface of the table, turning his head to the side. 

 

Trying not to roll her eyes, she leans forward. “Tyrion, stop your tapping and tell me what is the matter, and why exactly I _had_ to drink for this?” 

 

“You won’t like it,” is all he says. 

 

She does roll her eyes then, leaning back once more into her chair. “Tell me,” she demands, voice smooth and low. “Tell me—now.” 

 

Absentmindedly, Tyrion fiddles with the pin on his chest. It serves as a distraction to not meet her eyes, she notices. Maybe she really won’t like this news. 

 

“The tourney is being held, Princess. I know it will and that will your brother will agree to it.”  

 

Foolish and unnecessary as it may be, she doesn’t understand why that’s such a bad thing. She just doesn’t want to be bothered by the grandeur of it all. 

 

She folds her arms over her chest. “Alright. What’s so bad about that, Lord Tyrion?” 

 

“I know how you feel about marriage,” Tyrion looks up at her with a furrowed brow. “And for that, I am sorry, but—”

 

Daenerys sits up quickly, feeling unnerved by the mention of it. “But what? What does this have to do with marriage?”

 

“Technically you are no longer a child, and if you look at it this way: most maidens are married well before they are seventeen.” 

 

Despite the stifling heat of the city, a chill creeps up her spine. “Speak plainly.” she commands through clenched teeth, hating the sound of his fake optimism. 

 

Tyrion measures her with wary eyes. There is something swimming in his Lannister green eye. Pity, she’s able to recognize. It is pity—and she loathes it.

 

“For the last month the Small Council have been discussing possible matches for you. It’s become a pressing matter. Somehow, the prospect of a tourney came up and…” he hesitates for a moment, shifting in his seat and sniffing through his lopsided nose. “They are talking of bringing in sons from all of the Great Houses to compete for your hand.”

 

Her body seizes up as if someone had taken a bucket of ice cold water and dumped it over her head. She can hardly believe what she was hearing nor can she try to process it. Tyrion smiles tightly when she reaches for the carafe of wine and pours herself another cup. 

 

“Princess,” he says in warning as she downs it all, “it is only high afternoon. Being drunk on your first day back? You can see how this would look, can’t you?” 

 

Daenerys savors the sourness of the red liquid and shoots Tyrion a scathing look. “No offense, My Lord Hand, but I think you are the last person to lecture someone on their drinking habits.” 

 

That shuts him quickly enough, but she does decide to slow down on the wine, knowing that he’s right. With a sigh, she sets the goblet to the side and faces him with a broken sigh. 

 

“I have no say in the matter, do I?” she asks despairingly, already knowing the answer. Daenerys may be the future queen, but even queens have no say in who they marry. Her mother being a great example of that. “And Rhaegar will most likely say yes, seeing as though my mother is backing it—is she?” 

 

She really hopes her mother isn’t. That she wouldn’t do this to her. Marriage is something that she would’ve had to deal with sooner or later whether she liked it or not, but a tourney? Daenerys finds it more than a little humiliating. 

 

Tyrion takes a sip from his own goblet, a sad smile around the rim of it. “Our Queen was happy with the idea.” A pang of betrayal stabs through her chest. “Look at it this way: I don’t believe there has ever been a tourney for a princess’s hand. You will be the first.” 

 

A snort bubbles out of her, the wine already making her cheeks warm. “The princess of the Seven Kingdoms and heir to the throne—what a lovely prize,” she sneers, getting to her feet at once. “If you don’t mind, I am very tired from my travels and wish to be alone,” she says as she makes her way to the ornate double doors, swinging them open. She looks to Tyrion with an artificial grin. “Thank you for informing me about my impending doom.” 

 

Tyrion stares at her for another moment, the silence stretched between them, before he finally sighs and scoots off the chair. She watches with her smile in place as he comes up to stop before her, and just before he leaves, a warm hand is pressed to her wrist. 

 

“I tried, Princess,” he vows, eyes downcast. He doesn’t need to tell her. She knows and she’s grateful she wasn’t ambushed by anything—that he took her to the side. Her best interest is something he’s always strived for. “I tried,” he tells her again, “but they wouldn’t listen. I am sorry.”

 

And with that, he’s gone. Leaving her to stand alone in the doorway, lost and confused. 

 

Ser Barristan is there with worried, kind eyes. “Are you alright, Princess?”

 

 _No, I am not alright. Nothing is alright,_ she wants to say. She could say it and her old knight would most likely try to find a way to make it better, but she doesn’t say a thing. Why trouble him with it now, he’ll learn about it soon enough.

 

Instead, Daenerys assures him she’s fine—but she knows that he obviously knows something isn’t right—and tells him to go rest and to send up another guard. Reluctantly, he goes and she closes the doors, locking them behind her. 

 

It is like her body is moving on its own as it goes through the motions of closing every last drape to block out the sun, as she tears off the gown she was in and pulls on a robe that had been in her wardrobe, and as she trudges over to her bed to gingerly set herself on the edge of it. 

 

This was _not_ the homecoming she was looking forward to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it’s been almost 2 months since I updated this, which wasn’t intentional. I guess I sort of hit a brick wall, but we’re here! What did you guys think of Dany’s story and the tourney that shall be upon us soon? 
> 
> As always, leave a comment because I look forward to them!!! And if you want to chat with me, I made a tumblr—I’m @ s4tanicmajesty hehe pls do follow and talk with me if you’re on there! Until next time! 💗


	6. feels like an omen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tourney is announced and Daenerys shows capability as the heir while strange dreams start to plague her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10k of dany. i honestly wasn’t expecting to update this so soon, but it came rushing out of me so here we are. 
> 
> enjoy! ❤️ (sorry for any grammatical mistakes!)

The Red Keep had been a tortuous stream of activity since the day King Rhaegar has announced the tourney—The Princess’s Betrothal Tourney he deemed it. Far and wide, high and low, the realm was abuzz with the news. Ravens come in day and night with words from high lords—low, as well—all of them joyous with the prospect of their lordling sons claiming glory for their house through Daenerys. 

 

Much to her dismay, everyone around her was teeming with excitement.  Missandei, of course, knew her heart and was well aware of where she stood on being paraded for the public, especially with such a personal matter. When she told Rhaella just that, her mother turned on her with a frown and scolded her, telling her that a royal marriage is not personal especially a princess’s. It is for the realm.

 

For House Targaryen, in the very end. 

 

And as much as she bestows the dragon’s pride, and as much as she revels in being The Dragon Princess—with every day that passed and every Small Council meeting there was that had been planning the tourney she didn’t want, Daenerys couldn’t help but feel hopeless and trapped. 

 

She tried to preoccupy herself with seeing to her ladies, keeping up her appearances in court, and sitting in on sessions with the Small Council when they weren't convening on her impending sham of a marriage. Sometimes she was successful, her mind filled up with ways to make Sansa more comfortable in the capital, welcoming the influx of curious highborn ladies that were coming to court day by day, and incentive ways to see the sickly smallfolk. 

 

But happiness was fleeting these days, and pretending to be busy even more so. 

 

Everything was tiring her—upkeeping her princessly duties, listening to the nagging buzz of high lords arguing over a large table in a room that seemed to grow smaller with every petty remark, keeping a steady smile on her face, and simple things, necessary tasks like eating. Even eating was exhausting. Dinner had become a dull event, but truth be told, it had been that way since Viserys passed. More often than not, she’d take her meals in her chambers in silence, ignoring her brother’s calls and her mother’s ramping impatience. 

 

Not even being alone was a respite. The cold, dark of the quiet would either make her feel so low it felt like she’d never get up again, or it’d irk her to no end. And when she got like that, nothing much could temper her. Not even Missandei’s normally calming presence or Merla’s easy-to-come-by smiles. 

 

The only true respite she found in all of this was, unsurprisingly, Jon. 

 

But that was unbeknownst to him. Whenever she could sweep away from all the noise, Daenerys would find herself seeking him out. Every day he trained in one of the smaller courtyards in the palace, so caught up in the motions of his sword that he wouldn’t notice her watching him, intrigued but also feeling more calm than she had in weeks. 

 

Ser Arthur would appear sporadically, surprising not only her but Jon. He had just about jumped out of his skin once when he’d been practicing a particular stroke of his sword, wanting to be more swift than he had been. Ser Arthur laughed as he stepped out of the shadows, clapping him on the shoulder, and then went to instruct him, lending useful tips and encouragement. But after that day whenever Ser Arthur would show up unannounced, Jon didn’t move a muscle or bat an eyelash. 

 

Being Ser Arthur’s squire would make any boy or man puff up with pride and Jon was no exception. He’d make no fuss in tending to The Sword of the Morning, happy to polish his armor, look after his horses, and carry any message, although Ser Arthur rarely enlisted Jon for that task. But Jon’s noticeably favorite thing about squiring for Ser Arthur was being able to take care of Dawn. It surprised her how easily Ser Arthur entrusted Jon with it, but he did and Jon was no fool—he did right by the sword whenever he got the chance to. 

 

Looking after Jon gave her reprieve and to her relief he was settling in nicely. There might be a few cold looks from other squires, most likely wondering what was so special about Jon for him to be in the position he was in. Once while she was on her way to the gardens, she heard someone making a snide remark about _‘that Snow bastard’_. It was nothing but petty jealousy she knew, but her fingers had itched to find the offender and drag him before Jon, making him spill a million apologies from their lips and let Jon decide whether they were worthy of forgiveness or not. 

 

She tempered herself then—but just barely. Something she also knew was that if anyone had any true problems with Jon, they would have his direwolf shadow to worry about. 

 

Daenerys was surprised Jon’s dutiful wolf, Ghost, hadn’t given her away yet whenever she spied on his master. The rapidly growing beast would watch her with a keen, quiet nature and Daenerys swore he knew that she was doing something she shouldn’t. There was something about those red eyes, an old wisdom loomed within them, she was sure of it. 

 

And it is as she’s making her way to another Small Council meeting, that she comes across Jon—face to face for the first time in more than a month. 

 

Daenerys smiles brightly, true and genuine, when she sees his figure heading her way. Subconsciously, she fiddles with the bodice of her gown, a light green one today. Merla told her that she liked this color on her. 

 

“Jon Snow,” she calls out to him, garnering his attention. His head snaps up immediately from where he’d been paying more attention to the floor than where he was going. “I almost forgot what you looked like,” she jests, making him crack a smile of his own as he closes the distance between them in the long stone hall. “And I thought I told you to be no stranger to me.” she teases, her grin growing with his. 

 

“I have been quite busy, Daenerys. Sorry.” His eyes bounce to the man behind her and Jon perks up instantly, still very much humbled by his presence. “Ser Barristan, nice to see you again.” 

 

Ser Barristan lends a hand out for a shake which Jon takes, a strong-looking clasp of their hands. Daenerys raises a brow at the sight of his scarred hand. The bandages are gone and it no longer looks to be injured, which is good. She knows that is his sword hand. 

 

“And you, Jon. I heard your training has been coming along swiftly. Arthur talks about the steadfast improvement of your skills with pride,” her old knight tells Jon, making him bring rub the back of his neck in a sheepish manner. 

 

Jon shakes his head. “Aye, well, I do my best, Ser,” he says, with a chuff of laughter. His grey eyes scan the length of the hall they’re standing in. Disbelief painted over his handsome features. “I am just lucky to be here is all. Overwhelming is not the word for it.”

 

“Nonsense,” Daenerys says at once, “we’re lucky to have you.” Her declaration makes Jon’s cheeks redden, the air going still with an awkward silence as she feels Ser Barristan’s steady gaze burning into her back. Now, it is her cheeks that start to bloom scarlet. 

 

 _Was that too forward?_ she wonders. 

 

Fumbling to recover, she hurries to say, “I mean, as our Lord Commander of the Kingsgaurd said—you have obvious skill and it grows every day. Such talent shouldn’t go unnoticed.” 

 

Compliments don’t seem to be something Jon is comfortable with, but despite his discomfort his smile widens. 

 

“If that is what my Princess believes, then I thank you.” 

 

And she does. His skill is something she sees for herself nearly every day, but she can’t exactly tell him that, can she? 

 

Moving along to change the subject, Daenerys brings up the lack of Ghost. It would’ve been nice to see him up close again, and not while she was playing spymaster. 

 

Jon scratches his head. “Ah, he’s in my chambers, waiting for me. I mean to take him and Lady for a hunt.” 

 

“He gets bigger and bigger every day. It’s magnificent.” 

 

His brow furrows then, making her mistake known. She has to fight the urge to bite down her lip, she settles for her tongue. The coppery taste of blood helping little to relieve the tension building between her shoulders. 

 

“You haven’t seen Ghost, have you? He’s with me nearly all the time.” Jon sounds entirely too suspicious, his dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. 

 

Daenerys shakes her head, a laugh stuttering out of her chest. “No, um, Sansa—” she thinks of Sansa’s direwolf immediately. If Lady was growing larger by the day, then shouldn’t it be the same for her wolf brother? “Sansa has Lady with her almost all of the time as well. Lady grows daily, so I just thought…” her words die off, as Jon’s face rises into a grin, but he fights it back to the best of his ability.

 

Jon nods rapidly. “Right, yes, of course. Lady grows as well,” is his response, but the mirth within his expression tells her that he clearly isn’t sold on her lame excuse. Her cheeks feel like they are on fire now. “If you don’t mind me asking, what have you been up to lately, Your Grace?” 

 

It feels like he’s trying to trap her, clearly thinking he has an inkling of what’s she’s been up to. He does, but she’s not going to slip up that much and let him win. She’s quick to smile, folding her arms over her chest. 

 

“Council meetings, I’m off to attend one now. I’m sure you’ve noticed we’ve gained some guests, so I host them quite regularly. And…” she trails off, feeling a wave of solemnity rush through her, “preparing for the upcoming tourney.” She can’t meet his gaze anymore, choosing to look off to the side. She’s afraid to find pity within it. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” 

 

A beat passes before Jon sighs. “Aye, I’ve heard.” Then another beat passes, more awkward silence. 

 

Suddenly, she doesn’t want to be there anymore. She pushes past Jon with an excuse of being late even though she knows they must be well under way by now. As Daenerys brushes by him, she swears she feels the light brush of his fingers at her forearm, but the fleeting warmth is gone much too soon for her to decide that it was. 

 

Maybe it was an illusion. Or maybe she wants someone to reach out for her. To placate her. 

 

Daenerys _wants_ , but it seems she can never _have_. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The council meeting is boring to put it plainly. From her seat at Rhaegar’s right, she takes in all the men before her and assesses them quietly. 

 

Across from her, at Rhaegar’s left, is Tyrion, who seems to be as bored as she is as they listen to the droning of Grand Maester Pycelle. They share a glance as the maester whines about the lack of a certain herb he needs. Daenerys doesn’t know why he complains so. The Crown will make sure he gets what he needs, as always. 

 

Sitting to her right is the powdered and plump, Lord Varys, in all of his rich silken robes—who also seems to be bored, but he seems to hide it just as well as the King. She’d much rather hear what their spymaster has to say, even if most of it is gossip. 

 

Her eyes trail over the rest of the table; Lord Paxter Redwyne, The Master of Ships and longtime loyal man to House Targaryen, Lord Randyll Tarly, The Master of Laws, also another loyal bannerman to House Targaryen, Ser Barristan sits in as well as Lord Commander of the Kingsgaurd, Queen Rhaella sits at the opposite end of Rhaegar, and last but certainly not least, Lord Petyr Baelish, The Master of Coin. 

 

When her eyes fall on the man dubbed as “Littlefinger” his sharp features transition into a smile that he must think looks warm and friendly, but to her he looks downright sly. Her wariness of the man always becomes a pressing matter when she’s in his presence. Daenerys has never trusted the man—anyone knows you’d be a fool to—but she distrusts him even more so after Tyrion told her about his staunch approval and enthusiasm of the tourney. 

 

A nasty look is all he receives in return for his smile and she feels smug to see it die down on his face.

 

“I think that this is enough about medicines, Grand Maester,” Lord Baelish husks as he turns to the old man. “How about the to—”

 

Daenerys is quick to cut in, interrupting him with a graceful smile. “How about the sick?” she questions, sweet as ever. “There has been a rapid increase in ill smallfolk in the city, especially in Flea Bottom. Even some men of the City Watch have turned up ill. Something should be done.” 

 

Lord Baelish shoots her a rather annoyed look but doesn’t dare to speak up against her. Tyrion is smiling her way when she shifts her gaze to him, looking very amused.

 

“What can be done for them?” Pycelle asks, with knitted white brows. Everyone knows about his mistrust of the smallfolk, and his distaste. “It will pass most likely.” 

 

Tyrion speaks up then. “This is something that has been going on for months. There have been reports from the City Watch that it seems the people have come down with some virus. It spreads fast and some people do get over it, but most don’t.” Tyrion adds with a grave tone, “There have even been a few casualties.” 

 

“They have been sick for months—even before our Northern parlay,” Daenerys tells them, a frown etching onto her mouth. She looks around the table at her mother and at every single man. “No one should have to suffer so long. There are mothers and children.” 

 

“Your Grace,” Grand Maester Pycelle sighs and repeats, “what can be done? I don’t see the point of—”

 

“What do you propose we do, Daenerys? I’d like to hear it from you.” Rhaegar says, shifting her attention back to her brother and King. He looks interested enough, a worried brow and hand resting on his chin, tracing over the silver stubble there. 

 

Taking a moment, she thinks it about. This feels like a test. A true chance to prove her wits to the Small Council and to her soon to be predecessor. If she does this right, it’ll make it known that she’s a worthy heir. 

 

The idea comes to her immediately. “We should have a place that houses the sick. Find worthy healers for hire and pay them to station themselves there and bring our people back into good health. This way, it brings all of the sick into one place so contamination rates may fall. It’ll take some time to be sure, but I think it will prove to be a worthy venture.”

 

An uproar starts immediately, sounds of jeering and disbelief rings through the walls of the chamber, but she doesn’t care for them at all. Only holding her gaze with Rhaegar, who is silent with a thoughtful look on his face. 

 

 _Don’t listen to them,_ she pleads internally. _Look at me, hear me, heed me, please…_

 

“Silence!” Rhaella commands with a raised hand. 

 

Every voice falls flat. Nothing but charged silence buzzing through the air. For the first time in weeks, Daenerys acknowledges her mother with gratitude. 

 

Rhaegar shifts in his seat, forearms coming to rest on the arms of his ornate chair. “Thank you, Mother,” he smiles towards Rhaella to which she bows her head in return. Then his indigo irises turn dark, almost black, as he glares at everyone except Tyrion, Ser Barristan, and Varys, who’d been quiet during the roaring. “I’d advise you all to never raise your voice in Princess Daenerys’ presence ever again. Did you all forget who she is?”

 

They have the decency to look well and truly ashamed. The men all avert their eyes from their King and her, filling her with smug pleasure. 

 

Rhaegar then turns to her, the sight of his eyes softening so quickly makes her feel affirmed. “Daenerys, that is quite the idea you have. I can’t say I have ever thought of something like that, nor heard of it. What would you call them—these places for the sick?” 

 

She shrugs. “Sickhouses, healing houses, whichever the people prefer—as long as they _have_ them. Health is of utmost importance. How fair is it that only lords with castles and holdfasts only have maesters? And how fair is it for the healers who are out there, working most times for little to no coin at all? The Crown is responsible for every being in this kingdom. We should act as such.”

 

Tyrion nods. “I like it,” he says, sounding impressed. Her heart sings with the approval.

 

“And how does Her Grace expect we will have the coin for this?” Lord Randyll Tarly asks, still very judgmental about it all. 

 

A wide smile spreads on Daenerys’s face as she looks to their Master of Coin. “I’ve heard our coinmaster is quite talented in that department. And we are not a poor kingdom besides. If it really comes to worse for wear, we can always bump up taxes on grain and other items and the high lords will have to deal with it—since it is for the betterment of our royal city. We’ll make due.”

 

“The tourney is coming up, Princess.” Somehow her title sounds dirty coming from Lord Baelish’s lips, his thin mouth twisting in a strange way around the syllables. “Construction costs and not only money, but time. It wouldn’t do to have a tourney with the capital being under construction.” 

 

Daenerys’s violet eyes narrow at the condescension dripping from the man’s raspy voice. “Worry not, Lord Baelish. I am sure His Grace can see how this is a very pressing matter. If you do for the people, the people will do for you. Besides, the high lords and all of their little lordlings can wait another moonturn or so and perhaps they’ll be glad for a longer training period. If we make them wait, it’ll be a much sweeter victory that way, I reckon.” 

 

“Is it possible, Lord Baelish? The coin.” Rhaegar asks.

 

Begrudgingly, their Master of Coin says it so. Rhaella looks pleased, as does Tyrion, but she’s still nervous, quickly glancing to Rhaegar. 

 

Rhaegar sits in silence, looking to everyone for a measured amount of time—Lord Redwyne and Lord Tarly indifferent to the notion with their upturned noses, Lord Varys looking at her with an unreadable expression, Grand Maester Pycelle red in the face, Lord Baelish quietly seething, Rhaella casting her proud gazes along with Tyrion and Ser Barristan. 

 

“Alright,” Rhaegar concedes, a small grin as he regards Daenerys. “I agree, and let it be known that this is Daenerys’ doing,” he tells them all, his chair scraping as he gets to his feet. 

 

Daenerys stands along with everyone else, hands clasped in front of her. “No, this will be the doing of the builders and the healers. Thank you, Your Grace.” 

 

“Thank you, Daenerys. This has told me a lot about you.” 

 

She watches him leave with a near-foolish grin on her face. Rhaella goes next, but not before coming over to smooth her hair down and tell her that she was proud of her. The rest leave without a word—Lord Baelish briskly stalking out of the room and Lord Varys shooting her a smirk that unsettles her before gliding through the door. Ser Barristan hangs back, hovering before she tells him to go on about his day and see to his Lord Commander duties, that a palace guard awaits her outside. 

 

That just leaves her and Tyrion in the spacious Small Council chamber. 

 

“Speaking of those healers, I’d like to talk about how to go on about choosing and employing some for hire. Sometime this week, perhaps?” he asks, clumsily settling down back into his chair. 

 

“That sounds good to me.” She’d like nothing more than to do something other than play host to highborn ladies all day or mope in her chambers. 

 

Tyrion nods, swishing the contents of the cup that always seemed to be in his hand. “I’ll bring in some prospects and we’ll go from there.” 

 

“I look forward to it, Tyrion,” she says as a farewell, moving towards the door. 

 

“You did well today, Your Grace.” Daenerys stops to look over her shoulder and see him full on smirking at her. “It is a very noble thing to look after the little people of the world, trust me, I would know it.” It’s a self-deprecating jest that she hates. “And very clever as well.”

 

She completely turns back in his direction, her eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?” 

 

A wry smile dances on his lips, as he studies his drink. “We both know you hate this _Princess’s Tourney_ and you have every right to—I hate that you are to be paraded around as well—but you managed to successfully put it off.”

 

Daenerys shakes her in disbelief, a smile of her own growing despite herself. “I wasn’t thinking of the tourney at all when I brought up my proposal.”

 

“Didn’t say you were, but it worked out in your favor anyway.”

 

She frowns, thinking of how the tourney will happen eventually. No matter how many projects she manages to come up with to preoccupy everyone’s time. It is inevitable. 

 

“Did it?” she asks. 

 

Tyrion smiles at her sadly. “Only for another day.” 

 

The walk back to her chambers is a quiet one, making her thoughts seem so loud that she isn’t so sure if she should go to her lonesome chambers. She falters at her doors, hand hovering over the handles before she decides to do without it and turn away from them. 

 

It is companionship she seeks. 

 

Daenerys knows the way to the destination in mind like the back of her hand and gets there in no time at all, knocking twice before entering. 

 

Missandei is there at her bed folding some linens and smiles brightly at her when she comes in. “Your Grace, nice to see you this afternoon,” she turns back to the linens. 

 

“And you as well,” Daenerys closes the door behind her, leaning on it for support before letting the news out. “The meeting went well today.” 

 

Missandei regards her with a raised brow. “Did it?” 

 

She bites her lip. “You know about how sick the people have been getting down in the city?” 

 

“Of course. It is something most horrible,” Missandei frowns as she halts in her task, face painted with sorrow. That is something Daenerys loves about her friend. She cares about others as well, just as much as she does. Her big golden eyes turn on her. “Is everything alright, Your Grace?” 

 

“I think it will be,” she tells her, excitement building as she thinks on it more and more. “I’ve come up with an idea and Rhaegar agreed to it.”

 

Her friend smirks impishly. “Why of course you did. You always have good ideas.” 

 

“Not always,” Daenerys chuckles, pushing off of the door and coming to stand at Missandei’s side, picking up an unfolded linen and getting to work.

 

Her friend tries to slap at her hands to take it away from her, but Daenerys is quick to leap out of the way. These are her linens anyway. Missandei gives up with a sigh, but looks at her so fondly that Daenerys can’t help but rushing back to her side. 

 

Missandei settles with asking her about the meeting. Daenerys can’t get the words out fast enough as she recounts everything. 

 

There is so much excitement and hope within her for the first time in nearly two months that she’s bursting with the feeling. And of course, Missandei dutifully listens along, glowing with the news of the upcoming project, adding little incentives here and there. Daenerys swells with pride at her best friend’s enthusiasm.

 

With Missandei backing her, she feels like she can do anything. 

 

Afterwards, they work in silence for several long minutes, a comfortable quiet that makes Daenerys grin to herself like a fool, feeling more than content. In fact, she feels so good that she lets something slip out, needing to tell someone. 

 

“I’ve been spying on Jon Snow.” 

 

Missandei guffaws, a foreign sound. “I _knew_ you liked him.” 

 

Daenerys scrunches her nose up, shooting Missandei an incredulous look. “ _Jon?”_ she squeaks, gasping when Missandei nods nonchalantly. “No,” she says, shaking her silver head rapidly in denial. The linen she’s folding is more rumpled into a ball than anything, but Missandei pays it no mind. “Jon is my friend, just like you are. That is all.” 

 

“Hmm, is that why you were so unhappy nearly most of the way coming back home? And why you were _so_ happy after we made that stop at that inn? We did find you in the woods, remember? I wonder who you were with, Your Grace…” 

 

Her mouth falls open in shock. Missandei’s laughter tinkers through the room like bells, her eyes shining like glistening honey. “I-I—No,” she stammers, her chest seizes up with an unidentifiable feeling. 

 

Missandei only looks at her with pursed lips and dimpled cheeks, entirely too smug for her own good. “It is only natural, I think. You two spent a lot of time together in Winterfell, Your Grace. Every day for a moonturn—that means something.” 

 

It cannot. It does not.

 

“Jon isn’t even—” her words fall flat because what was she going to say? That he wasn’t _handsome?_ A clear lie. Anyone with working eyes could see that he wasn’t unpleasant to look at. That he wasn’t fun to be around? She can’t remember laughing as much as she did during those days in the wolfswood. She tries again, fumbling for words. “Jon doesn’t even—” _Wrong_. “I’m not—”

 

Missandei gently sets down the last linen she was folding and turns to face her, removing the linen that was in her hands before taking them into her own. “You are overthinking it, Your Grace. You _are_ so many things. You are smart, compassionate, witty, charming, and very beautiful. Do not ever think otherwise.” 

 

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Missandei look so firm about something that it startles her. Her pouty mouth turned down in a frown and her dark brows heavily bunched. 

 

Gulping, she nods, blinking back unfounded tears. “Thank you. That is very kind of you to say, but I cannot like him. I cannot feel anything for him other than friendship. Things will never be that simple because I am not a simple girl,” she sighs, her mind wandering to the Northern boy, “and he will not be a simple man. I am to be queen and he will be guarding me one day as a sworn man to the Kingsguard. It cannot pass, Missandei.” 

 

“And why not? Who says this?” 

 

Everyone. This kingdom. The world. 

 

Instead she says, “I do. It’ll only hurt in the end, even if I wanted—” she bows her head, shaking it. “I do not know what I want.” 

 

Gentle fingers nudge her chin up and Missandei’s face swims through her unshed tears. “I think you do know what you want.” Jon’s smiling face rushes through her mind before she can help it. “What is that saying the Queen once told you, _‘Dragons bow to no one’_?” Missandei’s hands grab at her shoulders, her face coming closer as she tells her in their shared tongue of High Valyrian with a seriousness so grave the world goes quiet around them. “You _are_ a dragon. Be a dragon.” 

 

Daenerys gasps, blinking openly in surprise. “But I-I will have to get married soon. I am promised to another and I am not ready for… _that_.” 

 

She and Jon were only friends. Their relationship new and tender still. 

 

“I am not saying to do anything you are not ready for, Your Grace. Although, if you do not mind me saying—I think it is something worth exploring. It makes you happy to be his friend.”

 

“It feels like you are telling me to be more than that,” Daenerys shakes her head, “and I _can’t_.” 

 

Missandei sighs and tuts at her, shaking her head of curly brown hair before speaking once more in High Valyrian. “Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor.” 

 

She knows what that means very well.

 

_A dragon is not a slave._

 

 

* * *

 

 

That powerful utterance of High Valyrian plagues her mind throughout the day. 

 

Dragons are not slaves. Dragons do not bow. Dragons answer to no one. 

 

And Daenerys Stormborn is a dragon, is she not?

 

So why does she feel so restless as she turns Missandei’s words over and over in her brain—trying to decide what to do next. Daenerys knows what she should do. She now has a mission of some sorts. A project with a true purpose to focus on. 

 

But now can she focus on that when every person she comes across, she imagines them to have dark eyes, even darker ringlets of hair? When they speak, her mind warps their silky southern accents into something harsher, grittier and more northern than anything. 

 

It makes her feel almost crazed, halfway mad. _Is this normal?_ she wonders. _Is this what it feels like?_ She’s afraid to put a meaning to the word “it”. 

 

Maybe she just misses having him around her everyday like how it’d been nearly since when they first saw each other. That could be good enough, but she knows it is untrue. 

 

Going to sleep that night is a nightmare and she actually does have a nightmare when she manages to fall into slumber.

 

Daenerys sees wolves drowning, babies burning, their screeching making her ears ring and heart beat slow. She dreams of dragons rising but also of them falling.

 

The iron throne stands before her several feet away, in all of its spiked cruelty in the empty throne room. Something is sitting on the seat of it, small and blue. Her footfalls echo in eerie quiet as she gets closer. When she walks up the steps, there is a smell so sweet that it makes her eyes water, assaulting her senses. 

 

A single thorny rose lays there on the cold iron seat. The blue of its full petals so vivid that she can’t help but to pick it up and marvel at the sight of it. One of the thorns winds up pricking her fingertip. Blood runs down the stem. 

 

Then she is in the middle of a blistering cold storm. Snow whipping past her face so fast it feels like lashings on her skin. Nothing but crystal white is all she sees for miles and miles. Her lonesome figure stands in front of a giant frozen wall. Frosty air breathes on her as she approaches it, the feeling reminding her of how it feels to stand too close to a fire, how the flames radiate warmth. She presses her fingers to it and jolts with a loud gasp at the cold feel of it—so cold that it _burns_. 

 

And then three doves fly above her head.

 

The next morning, she wakes with purple rings under her eyes that Merla frets over. 

 

She goes on about her day, happy to spend time roaming the gardens with Sansa and Lady. The other highborn ladies look as if they want to approach and she would welcome them if they did, but they don’t because of the direwolf and shoot nasty looks to an oblivious Sansa. Daenerys is sure they’ll be gossiping about her soon enough. She’d much rather spend time with Sansa anyway, even if all the girl can talk about is the tourney and her possible matches. 

 

It keeps her mind off of her strange night dreams for a time, but they rush back at her when Tyrion ends up surprising her with suggestions for healers already. The skin beneath his eyes is purple as well, signaling that he’d been up all night at it. Daenerys feels immense gratitude and is surprised he’s all for her venture as much as he seems to be.

 

But flashes of her dreams attack in her waves throughout their meeting in her solar and she feels overwhelmingly dizzy with the effort of following to Tyrion’s words of advice. When images of drowning wolves come back to her, she has to excuse herself to the privy and heave up the lunch she had with Sansa. 

 

Several minutes pass before she’s able to straighten herself up, going to her bedchambers to splash cold water out of a basin onto her flaming hot cheeks. 

 

She doesn't know what this is, but she hopes it will pass. 

 

Tyrion regards her with a worried look when she comes back into the solar, but she pushes through it and asks for him to continue, this time listening better than she had before. 

 

The choices he’s come up with so far include a young Braavosi woman of the name, Lora, who is famed for her mysterious elixirs that seem to have healed even a crippled man—a wizened elderly woman, Bethel, who grew up in Flea Bottom and tends to be blunt and grouchy, but good at caring for the sick besides—a middle-aged man, Gerolt, from the Westerlands who is good with children and tends to specialize more so in physical therapy and recovery—and lastly, a mute man of the name, Syrus, who is experienced with laboring and its juxtapositioning task of autopsy. 

 

_Life and death. How strange it must be for him._

 

“These are all good,” Daenerys tells him. “It would be nice to have not only just healers being there for one thing: disease. It will most likely ensure longevity for the sickhouses. For instance this man, Syrus, is good with laboring. How many mothers could use assistance when it comes to birthing? Midwives are always a treasure.”

 

Tyrion frowns as they look at the list of names. “He’s a man, so would they call him a _midhusband_?”

 

Rubbing at her temples, she snorts. “I don’t think it really matters, Tyrion, but if it does we will find out soon enough. I want him.” She looks over the four names with satisfaction. “All of them, and _more_. Four won’t be nearly enough especially if there could be potentially more than one sickhouse.”

 

“Agreed, but should we not get ahead of ourselves, Princess? Who even knows if the first will be successful?” 

 

She wants to scowl at him for doubting her, but before she can her head throbs almost violently in pain, making her bow over in her seat. Tyrion hops off of his chair immediately and shoots a hand out to rest on her back. 

 

“Your Grace? Are you unwell?”

 

It is the dreams—nightmares rather. She knows it is. 

 

Daenerys heaves a shaky breath, sitting back up and waving his hand off. “I am fine, Tyrion.” He stands there, unmoving with an arched brow. “I promise,” she insists, even though the throbbing stays, ebbing through her brain. He goes over to his seat after another moment, but still looks mistrustful.

 

“We’ve done all we needed for today.” His black-green eyed gaze roves over her face. “You are flushed and sweating. Maybe I should not have come to you so soon.” 

 

Now she scowls at him. “No. Whenever you have something new on this project you come to me immediately. I don’t care what I’m doing.” 

 

His stunted legs drop back down to the ground as he grabs the list from the table. “Rest, Your Grace.”

 

Her eyes trail after Tyrion as he trudges his way out of her chambers. “Find them and summon them to court!” she yells after him, almost smiling—her head is hurting too much for her to do much of anything—when she gets a noncommittal noise of agreement in return as the doors close behind him. 

 

Turning, she looks over to the door that leads to her bedchambers and thinks that resting for a while wouldn’t hurt. But as the thought comes so does the fear of having another nightmare. 

 

_At least it’s something other than Viserys’ face._

 

Fortunately for her, Daenerys does not dream at all. For the first time in a long time, her sleep is a peaceful one. She sees nothing, deeply unconscious.

 

When she rouses, the sky is pink and burning in oranges. Sundown. 

 

Drowsiness wears her down, but the nausea from earlier has lessened, not completely though, and the sharp head pain from earlier had gone. She summons a maid to fetch her something to settle her stomach and is glad to have been brought a steaming mug of mint tea and slices of salted bread—fresh grapes and cheese on the platter as well if she feels well enough to eat some. 

 

Taking her mug of tea and a slice of bread, Daenerys slips her feet into her satin slippers and makes her way out onto the balcony that opens up to the left of her bed. 

 

Maegor’s Holdfast, the place in the Red Keep which holds the royal apartments and houses her family, has a wonderful view. She has always loved coming out here to look over the city. 

 

There is nothing but rows upon rows of bunched together buildings, stone and more stone. Green hills stretch on for miles and to her right are the open waters of Blackwater Bay—named for the still, black bottomless depths that meet her eye. Up here all she can smell is seawater and fresh air, but she knows deeper down in the bowels of the capital it smells, frankly, of shit. 

 

Which brings her thoughts to the people. She ponders if they will receive the news and construction of the sickhouse(s) well. The high lords won’t, she can be sure of that. As rich and well off most of those men are, they loathe taxes, and they will loathe if there is an increase in them for the sake of the poor. 

 

 _Selfish fools,_ she thinks bitterly. 

 

And then after the people, she thinks of Rhaegar. It felt good to have him back her and give her the permission for this project. He said then that their meeting told him much of her. She wonders what that is. Most likely, he might think her capable now. That the throne will be in good hands after his reign. 

 

Daenerys can only hope. 

 

Rhaegar’s approval had meant a lot to her. More than he could know. All of her life she’d been fatherless. The Mad King was her father, but he’d been slain before she was born and cast aside. Rhaegar came into his crown soon after and proved to be as true a king as any before him. Even if a certain dark cloud seemed to loom over him everyday—for what reasons she did not know. Only that he had lost nearly everything in the war.

 

Despite that, Rhaegar ruled well. His subjects were content with him, but they did not worship him as much as they might have had the Rebellion not happened. Tyrion told her as much and the man never lied to her. It was said that the realm was hungering for something much more out of the next reign— _her_ reign.

 

Small wonder why everyone was looking forward to this mummer’s tourney. It felt like she was a some of prized mare and ready to be sold off for the taking. _Is this the consequence she must suffer for her brother’s past transgressions? Must she live a life only sworn to duty? Can she not choose love as Rhaegar had?_

 

As the days wore on, she started to understand Viserys more and more. Rhaegar nearly ruined them as much as their father. Maybe that is the reason for his sullen nature, knowing that he doomed her. A wave of pain rushes through as she considers the possibility of Rhaegar blaming himself for Viserys. He never spoke of him, not even when during the wake, but she remembered the look on his face after he came from The Great Sept after viewing Viserys. Rhaella had forbid her from seeing her brother, even though she didn’t have to—seeing him fall was enough for her. It was said his bones shattered on impact and his head cracked open like an egg making him nearly unrecognizable. 

 

Even the mere thought brings Daenerys such grief that she has to close her eyes to steady herself. She cannot imagine how Rhaegar could be the same after that.

 

Despite his faults, she cannot hate her brother. He was the biggest father figure in her young life after all, even now. If this was something he needed, after all of the pain he’d endured, then she’d endure it too.

 

The many, many bright lights of the city awe her. A sense of peace finding her as time goes by, the sun getting lower and lower until the sky fades to black and the stars and moon meet her. 

 

In her opinion, King’s Landing is the most beautiful during the night, but it’s never quiet. Even up here, she can hear an underlying buzz of activity under the wind that comes from deep down in the city. She loves it. 

 

And suddenly, she itches for something to do, even if it's just going for a walk. 

 

Daenerys turns back into her chambers and hastily throws a light cloak on. There is a chill to the wind tonight. 

 

Two palace guards stand sentry at her doors and one of them makes move to follow her, but she commands him otherwise. A shadow is something she doesn’t particularly want.

 

Throwing her hood on, Daenerys turns a corner and another, going down the narrow turnpike staircase. Where her feet are taking her, she doesn’t really know, but they take her outside and across the drawbridge of Maegor’s Holdfast, over the dry moat and its vicious iron spikes. 

 

Only a few men are in the yard, but she turns her head to the side, not wanting to be noticed. She took note of the vacant stables, but she was sure a few hands were somewhere around as they always seemed to be. A fleeting thought of Silver comes to her as she went deeper into the castle. She’d have to visit her girl real soon and go for a proper ride. 

 

After her climb up the serpentine steps did she realize where she was heading. The castle was as quiet as a whisper as the godswood came into view. 

 

It was nothing like the infamous one back at Winterfell, but still there was a certain serenity about the place. The powerful feeling of being watched by the old gods of the North was still present here, even in the heart of the Red Keep.

 

A thousand eyes follow Daenerys as she moves through the trees. Her fingers brush against harsh bark and smooth leaves. She feels just as much at peace here as did on her balcony. Perhaps coming here more often would do her some good. 

 

It wasn’t like anyone ever came here anyway. Everyone she knew were devout followers of the Seven.

 

 _Not everyone_ , her mind’s voice says. 

 

True enough. But what were the chances of him ever coming here? Busy was all he was lately. She doubts if he had anytime to pray to his father’s gods, and even if he did, she especially doubts he’d be here on the rare chance that she was. 

 

Something wet passes across her fingertips making her quietly gasp and jump. Her heart flies up to her throat, beating rapidly within it. Turning at once, she finds red eyes staring at her and immediately sags in relief. 

 

Bringing a hand to her chest, she laughs. “You scared me half to death, you silly thing.” 

 

Ghost pushes his head into her hip and then sits back on his haunches, looking up at her in a way that looks impressively expectant. Chuckling fondly, she reaches down to give his head a few good rubs and pats. The wolf looks too delighted for his own good.

 

Daenerys can’t help but marvel at the sight of him. The white coat of his fur is nearly blinding under the unabashed moonlight. “Your hair shines like mine,” she tells him and smiles widely when he closes his eyes and gives her a content whine. “Good boy.” 

 

Her eyes snap up, scanning the area. If Ghost was here, where was his human friend? The wolf follows along diligently as she turns and goes off in search of him, moving a little deeper into the godswood. 

 

Due to their godswood only being so big, she’s able to find him easily, sitting there on a boulder with his back to her in front of the heart tree. The sight brings her back to Winterfell and their shared nights in the sights of the old gods. Daenerys shifts her gaze back to the heart tree, studying it. 

 

Unlike the weirwoods of older godwoods and the one in Winterfell, this heart tree is a great oak with smokberry vines wrapped around its girth. One of her favorite flowers, red dragon’s breath, grows just below it. But there is no weeping face carved here, or any red sap tears. 

 

“Such a pity,” Daenerys says wistfully, her voice carrying over the wind. 

 

Jon startles, twisting around in his place to find her standing there still looking at the tree. He clears his throat, but his voice is as rough and northern as ever when he asks, “What is?” 

 

“We lack a weirdwood,” she answers with a sigh, “but even so, there is still some kind of power here. Ancient.” 

 

He turns back to the tree before him, taking it in for himself as if he truly hadn’t before. Maybe he hadn’t. “Aye, I feel it too,” Jon agrees. 

 

Daenerys moves forward, now looking at him. Thoughts of her conversation with Missandei come to her as she watches him. ‘ _I think I do know what you want_ ’, those words make her hesitate. 

 

She had thought of him then and it frightened her. It frightens her _now_. 

 

Trembling slightly, Daenerys makes her way over to him, clasping her hands together as to have them not twitch and shake in front of him as they itch to do. Jon slides over a bit to make room for her to sit, the movement drawing attention to the gleaming sword in his lap. She shifts forward on her feet but falters still. The small smile Jon has on his face as he pats the empty space makes her heart give. 

 

With a bite to her lip, she gingerly sets herself down beside him. Ghost, without hesitation, shoves her hands from her lap and places his head there, his crimson studying the two of them acutely. 

 

A surprised laugh tumbles from her lips at the wolf’s nonchalance and familiarity. She has no choice but to give him more loving rubs, cooing fondly over him. 

 

Jon groans, rolling his eyes in a dramatic fashion that makes her giggle like a young girl. She can see that he looks just as fond, though. “Don’t be all soft with him like that. He’ll never leave you alone if you do.” 

 

“I’m not sure if I want him to,” she hums, turning back to Ghost with a bright smile. “I was the one who found him with you, remember?” A teasing smile spreads across her face as she looks Jon’s way. He rolls his eyes again and turns back to the blade he’d been whetting. His sword, she knows. “I’m jealous, though,” she adds, still dragging her fingers through Ghost’s soft fur. 

 

Jon raises a dubious brow at that, focused on the sword. “Why’s that?” 

 

“You have a loyal protector at your side. The fabled direwolf of House Stark. I cannot imagine how it may feel to have Ghost. If only I could have a dragon,” she sighs wistfully. 

 

Jon hums. “You’d be quite the sight, I reckon.” 

 

Daenerys turns to him, studying his profile with a grin. _He looks quite handsome tonight,_ she thinks. His raven curls frame his long yet elegant face perfectly and his hands look deft and masculine as works with the whetstone. “Would I?” He nods an affirmative, making her snort. “Might be that I’d be Visenya reborn.” 

 

“No,” Jon says, shaking his head. “Not Visenya.” When Daenerys lifts a brow at that, Jon is quick to cut in with more. “I’m not saying you couldn’t be a fierce warrior queen. Hells, if you want to learn the sword I’d teach you one day.” She always did admire Visenya, but Rhaella wasn’t too keen on her learning how to fight, thinking it wasn’t necessary. Viserys laughed in her face once as a child when she was playing with a stick she called Dark Sister, slaying her enemies. Too soft, is what he called her. If given the chance, Daenerys would like to learn. She’ll store away that offer for a later time and perhaps she’ll take Jon up on it once he was knighted. 

 

“But I think, as a queen,” he continues, “you might be more like Rhaenys.” 

 

The sureness of his voice amuses her, so she has to ask, “What makes you so confident about that?” 

 

“You have a kind heart and sometimes you’re a bit curious. Rhaenys was said to love music. You like to dance, I’ve noticed.”

 

“Noticed?”

 

“You danced five songs with Robb at the feast,” he says matter-of-factly. “More than you needed to, but you seemed to enjoy it.” 

 

Her eyes narrow. She remembers seeing him there at the feast watching her then, but she didn’t know he had watched her the whole time. “Seems to me I had an audience,” she teases.

 

Jon doesn’t fumble at her accusation, just nodding. “You did. Everyone was watching, who wouldn’t? We had never seen anyone like you.” he says it smoothly, nonchalantly working his blade. 

 

Daenerys balks at his shamelessness. “Like me?” 

 

“Like you,” Jon confirms, a small twist to his mouth. Daenerys doesn’t know to think about that or the way her stomach flutters. Red blooms across her cheeks. Ghost whimpers when she carefully nudges his head off of her lap. She watches the wolf disappear off into trees as she wrings her hands together. Jon clears his throat, speaking up again. “Rhaenys loved flying more than anything.”

 

Daenerys is glad that he continues, but her brow furrows. “What does her loving to fly have anything to do with me?” She had no dragons. Flying is a foreign concept for her—for everyone living. The magnificent dragons of old have been gone for centuries. 

 

Jon looks up away from his sword, a thoughtful look on his face. “I imagine riding horses is something like it. That rush you get when you break out into a full charge, the wind flying through your hair, the adrenaline…”

 

His words take her back to their races in the wolfswood and she can see why he would think that way. Something wild stirs in her when she rides Silver. Daenerys could only imagine the rush and exhilaration of riding a dragon. Might be that she’d stay in the skies forever and never come down. 

 

She tells him as such and Jon indulges her with a wistful smile that him look a few years younger. Daenerys wonders what Jon was like as a boy. “Aye, I think I’d like to fly for a lifetime.” 

 

All this talk of dragons brings her thoughts back to the strange nightmare she had. Dragons rose… and they fell. Inklings of fear and anxiety start to eat at her. The sounds of their mighty roars as they soared and agonizing screeches as they fell had been so startlingly vivid. Even here, in the quiet of godswood, she can hear them echoing in the wind. 

 

Jon places a warm hand on her shoulder, turned towards her so that their knees knock together. She jolts at the physical contact, her lashes fluttering as she comes back, making him frown deeply. “Daenerys, are you alright?”

 

A flicker of a wolf being overcome with salty waves of the unforgiving sea makes her gasp. Jon’s other hand finds her hand, gripping tight enough for her to look at him. His jaw is sternly set and his eyes are like two deep depths of black, but under the moonlight she swears she can see something else in them. A fleck of some other color. It isn’t quite blue—it’s much too dark for that, but it isn’t purple either. 

 

_How strange…_

 

“Daenerys, what’s wrong?” he presses.

 

She fears that sharp pain from earlier may come back, but it doesn’t and she has to blink a few more times to gather her bearings. “Nothing,” she lies with a wavering rise to her cheeks. Jon doesn’t look very convinced. So again she says, “Nothing. I just was thinking about—” she has to pause to fumble for something, “—about the sickhouses,” she comes up with it rather quickly. 

 

“Sickhouses?” Jon raises a brow. “What are those?” 

 

This gives Daenerys the perfect chance to share her small victory of winning over the council, half of it anyway, with Jon. He listens along in good nature, an immovable grin on his face. Telling Missandei felt good, but this feels almost better. He asks questions that show how truly interested he is and hums when she tells about ideas she has concerning it all.

 

Best of all, Jon holds her hands the whole time. 

 

After she’s done Jon is looking at her with a curious twinkle in his eye. “What?” she asks.

 

“Nothing, you just…” his words trail off as he shakes his head with a chuff. “You seem to always be so sure of everything.” There’s a hint of awe in his tone and Daenerys frowns. 

 

“I’m not—haven’t been for a while.” Jon watches her quietly, his silence beckoning her to continue. “Jon, I’m scared, angry sometimes, and most days I feel…” she has to search for the right words to explain the void in her chest she feels when she goes to sleep every night, or the dread that comes when the sun breaks through the clouds each morning. There is only one word for it. “Depressed.” 

 

The word brings a feeling of shame. It feels so dark and bleak. But that’s how most days have been for her. The only time she feels something other than indifference is when she’s with people she cares about. When she’s alone, though…

 

A grave frown pulls at Jon’s face, his thumb sweeping across her knuckles. “Do you know why you feel this way?” 

 

“The tourney,” she whispers, ducking her head. “It must be silly to you. The problems of a pampered princess.” 

 

His fingers gently tuck under her chin and bring her head back up, the sight of his tender gaze floods her with warmth. “No,” he says softly, his thumb brushes against her skin. “Your feelings aren’t silly to me. You can tell me anything.” His calloused thumb drags across her cheek before he drops his hand to take her hand again. “You’re scared?” he asks with a sad uptick of his mouth. 

 

“And humiliated,” Daenerys chuckles. The sound self-deprecating and sad making Jon’s eyes flicker in recognition. “I’m not that naive. I know I must marry someone, but this feels like I’m being… sold?” Jon nods in mute understanding. “A prize for the highest bidder. These hungry lords are offering up their sons like it’s nothing,” she feels disgusted by it all and her tone doesn’t disguise it as she sneers. “They’re ambitious and none of them have my, or even their son's, best interest at heart. What if they don’t even want to marry me? As selfish as it sounds, I don’t want to be in a loveless marriage.” 

 

Jon shakes his head. “Doesn’t sound selfish to me. You deserve to be loved, and whoever it is should feel lucky enough to be your husband.” Daenerys cuts her eyes over to him in alarm. He sounds so sure that it makes her heart spike. “Besides, we don’t need some prick as future King.” 

 

Daenerys chuckles at his brusqueness. “Loras Tyrell is training for the tourney. He’s said to be incredibly posh.” And incredibly skilled, probably one of the most skilled of her suitors. 

 

Jon rolls his eyes at that, laughing along with her. “Dany, I’m afraid most of them will think the sun shines out of their own arses.”

 

She narrows her eyes. “What did you say?” her voice airtight. Jon stops laughing, sobering up fast. “Dany, you called me. Only family’s ever called me that.” 

 

“Oh, I—” Jon fumbles, slipping his hands out of hers with an awkward chuckle, scratching at his scalp. “I didn’t mean anythin’ by it. It just felt—”

 

“It felt right,” Daenerys finishes for him, making wide grey eyes blink in surprise. She shifts forward, grabbing his hands again. “I liked it.” 

 

Jon lets out a stuttery laugh. “You did?” 

 

Her smile is wide as she decides to tease him. “Say it again and I’ll decide for sure.” 

 

Dark brows shoot up, his expression dumbfounded. If he thinks her request is a joke, that quickly fades as his expression morphs into amusing disbelief. 

 

She nudges him with an elbow, her grin not dying down. “Go on, then. Do as your princess commands,” her voice feigning a playful haughtiness that make his eyes glitter with mirth. 

 

He shakes his head fondly, his cheek rising in a slight smirk. “Well, I guess I cannot deny a command as obvious as that.” 

 

“I’m waiting.” 

 

Jon leans in slightly closer, replacing his mirth is an earnestness that makes her falter. “Dany, I won’t say you don’t have anything to be afraid of because I don’t know how it feels to be in your shoes but I’ll promise you something.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Remember when you asked if I trusted you? And I said I did?” 

 

Daenerys thinks back to when Jon had told of him going off to the Wall and joining the Night’s Watch, but how he’d been so unsure of it. And afraid. She could see he didn’t really want to go, but felt that he had no choice and was unwelcome to stay any longer due to Lady Stark’s intolerance for her husband’s bastard son. 

 

She asked him to trust that she wouldn’t leave him behind despite only knowing her for only a moonturn. He did—put his complete trust in her. She knew then they’d be close. 

 

So after that, she immediately went to Rhaegar and told him of Jon’s situation. Her brother listened as she brought up the fact that their Kingsgaurd had slimmed out and wasn’t to its full potential—that Jon _had_ potential. Daenerys was prepared to fight and go back and forth with Rhaegar, but it had been surprisingly easy for her to convince him. 

 

All there was to it was Rhaegar and Ser Arthur sharing a strange, quiet look and then it was decided that Jon would squire for Ser Arthur. 

 

Sometimes, it still baffled her just how accommodating the both of them had been. Even now, during some of the times she’d spy on Jon training, Rhaegar had been quietly watching from the sidelines. 

 

It was odd, but Jon was pretty singular so she let it go.

 

Focusing back on the question at hand, Daenerys nods. “Yes, I remember.”

 

“Well then trust me when I say that I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you don’t have to be afraid.” 

 

Whatever that is supposed to mean, Daenerys is not sure, but she appreciates the sentiment all the same. “I already trust you, Jon Snow,” she tells him with an affectionate smile. Jon just hums, now looking lost in thought. 

 

He turns back to his sword, quietly working it with the whetstone once more. Confused at his sudden solemn attitude, Daenerys stands to her feet. 

 

“Perhaps I should go. It is late.”

 

Jon looks up, but not at her. It is the heart tree he looks at, staring at with a troubled expression. The whisper of the wind is the only sound in the godswood. Daenerys still stands there, hovering, unsure and slightly wary. 

 

After a while, Jon finally says, “Aye, it is late and there’s chill out here.” He turns his gaze to the dark tree line and bellows, “Ghost! To me!” 

 

Immediately, Ghost darts out of the trees and lopes over to his master with the utmost obedience. Jon welcomes the snout presses into his hand, but his expression is still grim. “Go with Dany, Ghost.”

 

Ghost, intelligent as ever, turns to her and looks at her with his tongue lolled out. She realizes he’s waiting on her, but she still hovers, looking at Jon with a frown. 

 

“What about you?” 

 

Oddly resolute, Jon says while staring at the tree, “I think I need to pray.” Then he turns to give her a nod. “Good night, Dany. Ghost will take you back to your chambers and stay with you if you like.” 

 

The direwolf looks up at her so sweetly that she can’t refuse. “Sure. Goodnight, Jon.” 

 

Ghost pads along by her side as she starts to make her way back. Daenerys has to look over shoulder just once, ensuring that Jon was fine, but he was already looking after her. 

 

Jon gives her a small smile and nods once more before turning back to the tree, his sword, and the eerie quiet of the godswood. 

 

 _Northerners and their old gods,_ Daenerys thinks with a small bit of unease. 

 

“Let’s go, boy,” she murmurs to Ghost, patting him affectionately before the two of them go off back into the castle, quiet as the wolf’s namesake. 

 

Crossing the drawbridge, Maegor’s Holdfast comes back into view and she hopes when she settles down into bed tonight there will be no more strange dreams that frighten her. 

 

Those hopes are dashed when Daenerys drifts off into a fitful sleep with Ghost’s warm body beside her. Falling dragons and drowning wolves are all she sees. Burning cold is all she feels. Strong, fragrant roses are all she smells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, what’s up with jon? and those dreams dany’s having? hmmm... 
> 
> as always, tell me what you guys think! ❤️ (although, due to my bitch ass anxiety, i will act like i cannot read and avoid the comments for like two days 🥴) 
> 
> tumblr: s4tanicmajesty


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